


Per Angusta ad Augusta

by starkind



Series: Through the Ages [1]
Category: Batman (Movies - Nolan), DC Cinematic Universe, Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Military, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Blood and Violence, Character Death, Crossover Pairings, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Dubiously Consensual Blow Jobs, Enemies to Lovers, Gen, Historical Inaccuracy, Holy Roman Empire, M/M, Male Slash, Pining, Public Hand Jobs, Same Performer in Different Roles, Soldiers, Swordfighting, Temporary Amnesia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-30
Updated: 2016-12-13
Packaged: 2018-08-17 07:12:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 20
Words: 27,068
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8134946
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starkind/pseuds/starkind
Summary: -Through Difficulties to Honors-The Roman Empire is at its height; its military forces going strong. When a century on patrol stumbles upon a stranger outside their camp, their leader is forced to make a decision.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> All mistakes are mine, as always. Any historical experts may feel free to point out the most grave ones, though!

They found him in the middle of a deserted part of town, trying to scrounge up something to drink and eat.

In his weakened state, he was no match for the cavalry of horsemen, and they soon had him bound and gagged, to deport him to what turned out to be a fairly large military castrum down by the sea. He counted ten contubernium tents before he got propelled into the opposite direction to witness the arrival of a group of cavalrymen, their dyed red cloaks wafting behind them in the wind.

Squinting against the dust the hooves swirled up as they came to a standstill, he eventually lowered his head. All of the surrounding squadron members were swift to raise their right hand in greeting; arms bent 90-degrees at the elbow. The decurio in charge looked at his superior. “Ave, Centurion!” The man nodded and put a hand on the hilt of his sword; worn on the left to mark him as a high-rank-officer.

“What is going on?”

“We have caught this man loitering around Gothorium. He has been unwilling to cooperate.”

The Centurion listened to him without emotion and tightened the strings of his pawing stallion.

“What name do you go by?”

Even after he was roughly freed from the gag in his mouth, the man remained silent and only gave a stubborn turn of the head. A kick to his back brought him face down to the ground again. “The Centurion has asked for your name, you bastard.” Spitting out some sand, he ground his jaw and pushed himself back up to all fours.

“Antonius Eduardus Structus.”  
One of the soldiers then tipped the flat part of a gladius' blade under his chin and snarled at him.  
“If you are speaking to Brictius Titanus Westalis, you better look up!”

Eyes full of hatred, he did as he was forced to and blinked up from behind scraggly, long bangs. The man staring down at him from his large steed was hardly visible underneath his helmet with its horse-hair crest on top. His metal greaves gleamed in the sunlight just like his heavily decorated armor and ornate belt, despite being stained with blood and sand in equal shares.

“Has he been in possession of any weapons?”

“No, Centurion.”

The commander nodded, once, while reaching over to pat his horse's head. The steed was sweating vicariously, mouth and front expelling froth. After staring at their captive for the longest time, the Centurion eventually swung an agile leg over the animal's saddle and hopped off. He allowed a young strator to take care of his exhausted horse, patting the animal's hanging head and heaving sides one final time.

“Bring him into my tent.”

The sun pelted onto Antonius' aching shoulders as they yanked them back and all but dragged him inside. The two soldiers who stood guard stood at attention as their commander passed them by. Two adjutants made a move to take off their Centurion's lorica, the latter held up a stern hand. “I'll take care of this myself. Go draw me a bath, then leave.”

Inside the tent, it was fairly humid but at least sheltered from the merciless rays of the sun. As soon as his prisoner was tied to one of the corner poles and the servants had left, the Centurion began to take off his armor, starting with the military shoes and greaves at his feet. With nimble fingers, he loosened the metal strips that were fastened with hooks and laces at the front and hinged at the back.

Held together by vertical leather strips on the inside, the whole armor bodice came down with a clatter minutes later. As he stood there, dressed only in a woolen loincloth and reached up for his helmet, Antonius allowed himself a first, real glimpse. The man looked to be in his early thirties and had brown, not quite shoulder-length hair that pooled out of its confines.

His cheeks were flushed with the heat, exposing a beard growth that indicated a longer period of going without shaving. Upon seeing him stare, a knowing smirk settled upon the commander's lips. “For as little as you talk, you are dutifully observant.” Angry at being ridiculed, Antonius averted his eyes as the man also shed his final piece of clothing, and tried not to focus on the naked silhouette.

A whiff of olive oil caught his nostrils as the Centurion began to rub his whole body down, leaving it to glisten in the dim light of the tent. After being sufficiently doused from head to toe, Westalis then reached for a blade made of brass and began to scrape off the oily concoction from his skin. Antonius fought down a wave of dizziness and tried to lick some of the sweat from his upper lip to have at least something to drink.

"You know why I've put you here instead of where all the other prisoners belong, don't you?” He looked up at the baritone voice and saw how the man then lowered himself into the bronze bathtub in the corner. For a while, the sound of water lapping against the tub could be heard. “Because you are a sick pervert who just happens to have a glorious dick, and who likes being watched?”  
  
The words were laced with acid, but they only prompted the commander to give a curt, laughing sound. He was quick to rise, droplets of water running down his body. Antonius swallowed at the sight of his exposed, half-erect manhood and shifted. His actions prompted the taller man to stop in front of him, unabashed at his state of undress. After a while, he then put his arms akimbo.

“I am inclined to think you like to do more than just watch.”  
Two defiant dark brown eyes blazed up at him, a dangerous smirk hovering at the edges of his lips.  
“What makes you so sure I am not going to neuter you with my teeth?”  
  
Westalis reached out to put a hand on his sweat-matted hair.  
“That hungry look in your eyes.”  
With those words, he thrust his hips forward, burying his shaft inside the other man's mouth.

No sounds escaped the Centurion's throat as he continued to watch his prisoner swallow obediently. Only when he came, he made the faintest grunt, fist tightening in Antonius' hair for a second. Even if his parched throat screamed at him, Antonius spat the semen onto the dusted ground next to him.

“Fuck you.”

Brictius meandered back to his bathtub and cup a handful of water to rinse his flaccid member. When he turned around to meet the glower of his captive, he wore a self-assured smirk. “That is an aspiring goal, but I believe not one you are going to acquire in the foreseeable future.” Blood pulsated loudly in Antonius' ears, and he squinted at seeing double vision.

When his head felt too heavy to hold it up any longer, he gave in to the bone-numbing feel and dropped it to his chest.

* * *

At some point he woke, not sitting tied to the tent's pole anymore. Instead, he was laying down on his back, a cool sensation resting on his forehead. A rag drenched in fluid. A careful movement of his limbs caused a soft rattle of shackles, and he discovered he was still chained around both his ankles and wrists. “Awake now, are we?” The voice came from the other end of the large tent.

With care, he turned his head to keep the rag in its place. The Centurion was standing at a large table, overlooking what seemed to be a huge map. Antonius said nothing and glimpsed down his own body. He was surprised to find himself wearing a fresh tunic made from a very coarse material. A white piece of cloth covered his left shin. It was stained red. One final look at the map, then the other man walked over to him.

“After you fainted, I have taken the liberty to consult the Medicus. You have suffered from a moderate heatstroke. Some more rest and plenty of water should help. Also, I've seen to having you washed and shaved.” At that, a look of panic spread out on those expressive features, to which the Centurion crossed his arms over his broad chest. He wore a similar tunic, albeit cinched with a belt, exposing a set of well-developed leg muscles.

With his beard gone and his hair trimmed, it gave him a more youthful, if still stern look. “Don't worry. I may be inclined to take what I want, but rape isn't something I tolerate in my century.” Thinking back to the tantalizing sight of two firm globes which were far less tan than the man's overall olive complexion, the Centurion fought down the slight stirring in his groin.

“I...” Antonius licked parched lips and found himself handed a cup. Holding it awkwardly in between bound hands, he thirstily gulped the water, pausing only to wipe his chin when some of it dribbled down to soak the tunic. “... cannot help but wonder about your motives.” When the cup was empty, Brictius put it aside and leaned forward, elbows on thighs, hands clasped together. His brows furrowed as he pushed his jaw forward.

“You say your name is Antonius Eduardus Structus.”  
The other man nodded. Brictius Titanus Westalis looked at him with an unfathomable expression.  
“According to your gens, you are supposed to be dead.”

They stared at each other for a couple of moments, with Antonius' eyes darting in between his. Rustling at the tent's entrance made them both look over. An elder man, dressed in white cotton, stood waiting and inclined his head. The Centurion nodded and rose to his feet. “Come on in.” The Medicus did as he was told, greeting the other officer. His clear blue eyes then fastened on the third person in the tent.

“I see he has awakened.”  
Westalis moved aside as the doctor took his place.  
“Go see about the wound on his leg. It looks like the bleeding stopped last night.”

A swoosh of his cloak, then he was gone. Left behind, the Medicus set out to work, examining his patient. Antonius looked down to where his left shin displayed marred flesh and wondered why he could not recall the how and when he had obtained the wound. Working around the shackles, the doctor continued to tend to his injury in silence, until he cleared his throat.

“Who is he?”  
Antonius' question lingered within the tent for the longest time, until the elder physician arched an eyebrow.   
“The Centurion?"

A nod. The older man pursed his lips. "A Centurion gets chosen because of his exceptional ways. He is someone who has the size, the right amount of strength, and a dexterity in the use of sword and shield. He is a literate, vigilant, and active man who is ready to execute the orders he receives rather than bothering to talk them through. He is strict in exercising and keeping up proper discipline among his soldiers.”

Antonius nodded along upon the Medicus' list.  
“And... Westalis? Is he all that?”  
Alfredus Thaddeus Petronius looked at him with an immense amount of elder wisdom.

“He is all that, and more.”

* * *

“The leg wound is healing well. It is the bump on the back of his head I am more concerned about.”

“Loss of memory?”

“It could very well be. He does seem sincerely lost when being asked for anything but his name.”

Brictius Titanus continued to pace along the stables where the cavalry's horses rested. His own stallion loomed above all other horses at an intimidating size. “It could be a trap.” Alfredus watched him stop and pat his trusted steed's shiny mane for a while. Then he clasped his hands together. “Your instincts have always served you well, even as a child.”

One arm supporting his elbow, Brictius tucked a fist under his chin and stared off into the distance.  
“It just does not seem logical. They would've had to go to great lengths to ensure we'd find him.”  
The physician smothered the front of his toga and searched for the younger man's gaze again.

“Do you plan on keeping him at the camp?”  
Westalis' eyes narrowed briefly.  
“He could be an asset. Or simply the leverage that we need.”

Petronius gave a tilt of the head.  
“Your father would not have condoned those bargaining thoughts.”

“I am not my father.”  
It came out harsher than intended. The elder man unclasped his hands with a benign expression.  
“Very well. Have a good night, Brictius.”  
  
As soon as he was alone, the young commander allowed himself a quiet sigh.  
“Oh Vespertilio, what am I supposed to do.”  
The big black gelding dipped his head low to nuzzle into his master's palm and neighed.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Vespertilio is Latin for 'The Bat'


	2. Chapter 2

When he reentered his tent, his prisoner was awake and looking at him from his place on the cot.  
“When do you plan on taking these off?”  
Antonius wiggled his ankles for emphasis, wincing slightly at the movement of his injured leg.  
  
“As soon as I am sure what to make of you, I might consider it.”  
Structus' shoulders slumped the slightest bit.  
“That makes two of us.”  
  
Face even, Brictius fixated him with a commandeering glare. “I want you to tell me everything that you remember.” It prompted an instant, crestfallen expression. “All I know is that I've woken in the desert, alone and without supplies. As soon as I made my way into a city, your soldiers caught me.” Their eyes lingered within each other. Antonius gave another soft rattle of his chains.

“Unshackle me. Even if I were to think about trying to escape, I wouldn't know where to go.”  
After a long period of silence, Brictius eventually leaned forward to remove the chains and throw them aside.  
“Consider yourself on probation. One slip up, and you are back to being chained to the tent pole.”  
  
His gaze fell upon the bony nape and wrists as the other man leaned forward to rub his ankles. “Tonight you will sleep in here, until we have a place for you in one of the servants' tents.” Structus' looked up. “Servants?” Westalis nodded. “If you are no prisoner, you'll have the same status as a servant. My soldiers will not tolerate a stranger eating their food, so you have to make sure to work and earn your stay.”

Antonius was about to say something, but the commander had already walked over to the table. He returned with a bowl he thrust into the other man's hands. “Eat up, you are far too skinny for any proper duty.” A warm loaf of bread and a mixture of corn and grain made his mouth water, and he wasted no time digging in. The bowl was empty in no time, and Westalis smirked at the meticulous way Antonius' fingers wiped it clean.

“Your dexterity will definitely come in handy at the canteen.”

* * *

Camp life was different from anything Antonius thought he had ever experienced.

As the first buccina call rang through the fort at the break of dawn, he buried his head under the pillow and suppressed a curse. As he groggily turned around on his cot, he noticed the Centurion was gone. He did not see him again as he got up and dressed, and when two adjutants entered the tent to escort him to his new sleeping place in a tent far away from the headquarter area, Antonius had no choice but to comply.

They showed him a small bunk in the far corner of a tent shared with six other men. His new, daily on-site duties included carrying out errands like distributing supplies around camp, feeding and watering the horses. He was not allowed to go anywhere near the armamentarium, a long shed containing any heavy weapons and artillery, or be in possession of any weapons himself.

At first it was hard for him getting up when the skies were still dark in the morning to help prepare breakfast, but after a few days, Antonius became used to it. Sometimes he would even be able to catch a glimpse at the commander in the early morning hours; out and about way before the first call.

While his soldiers usually started to collect in the company area for breakfast and assembly, Brictius Titanus Westalis headed off to prepare the first of many vigorous training sessions for the day. They lasted about a watch long on regular days, and Antonius would observe them from afar.

Brictius Titanus Westalis was a rigid leader. He made his men take long runs under full pack in the heat, or swim in the nearby ocean for time. Marching drill was always in order, but there were no complaints within the squadron, seeing their commander always took on his own challenges.

When it started to rain, the unpaved areas of the campground turned into a puddle of mire, making it hard to keep clean feet, least of all maneuver chariots and equipment through the sodden soil. Groups of men still practiced archery, spear-throwing and swordsmanship against fixed posts.

With his arms full of laundry, Antonius carefully tiptoed through the mud. Lately he had been assigned a role as a so-called fuller. His job included collecting urine from the public and the animals, heating it with water and using the mixture to soak clothes. Him and other males would then jump in and stomp on the soaking items before they were rinsed and wrung out.

It was a tedious task, just like brushing the wool with the skin of a hedgehog once the fabric was dry, but Antonius never complained – it was way better than scrubbing the communal latrines. Lost in thought, he did not notice two young, sword-wielding legionaries stomping his way. “Out of the way you fool!” They did not slow their fighting, and one caught Antonius by the shoulder.

The momentum made him stumble, flail, and drop onto his behind, sending the neat pile of cleaned tunics sailing through the air and into the mud. A hearty roar erupted from the back as the soldiers laughed at his mishap. Among their midst, he caught the mocking eyes of the Centurion. Westalis lowered his javelin and raised an eyebrow.

“It pays off to mind your surroundings, even when doing nothing but laundry.” Full of dismay at two hours of work for nothing, Antonius scrambled back to his feet and glared at him. “Stop playing around in the dirt like little colts, then there wouldn't be so much laundry to do.” Westalis' expression turned from jeering to irritated. “What do you know about sparring?”

“Enough to know I'd be better off keeping my clothes clean when I'm not the one washing them.”  
The commander's face darkened at his insolent retorts.  
“You would not be able to last one round.”  
  
Antonius hoisted the sodden pile up over his shoulder with a cocky expression.  
“If you say so.”  
His tone was bold enough for the Centurion to halter his steps with a pilum across his chest.  
  
“Prove it.”

Soon, they stood in a roughly drawn circle, wielding wooden, training-purposed javelins around. While Antonius gripped the mid-range weapon tight in between both fists with a concentrated look, Brictius stood a few feet away and let the long pilum glide and rotate through his fingers with ease. Around them, many of his legionaries sat to watch the spectacle while they ate their midday rations.

At the casual display of power from their commander, they started to cheer him on, prompting Antonius to tighten his jaw and his grip around the wooden stick. The Centurion paused to take off his heavy military belt decorated with metal fittings, and was moving far too easy on slippery soil. Without any warning, he then charged at his opponent, and swept his feet off the ground.  
  
Antonius' back hit the ground with a dull splash into the mud, and applauding cheers roared over the arena.  
  
“Up. Again.”  
Furious at the patronizing tone, he scrambled to his feet and wiped an arm over his eyes.  
“Try at least, will you.”

Westalis' tone and grin were mocking him, as he twirled the weapon around again for emphasis. It fueled Antonius' anger, and he made a head-on approach, only to land face down in the mud again. Snorting out wet soil from his nostrils, he pushed himself to all fours and groped around for his lost weapon. Somewhere above to his right, he could hear Westalis clicking his tongue.

“What a sluggard you are. Stand up for the sake of what's left of your honor.”

Within the cold and soggy slush, his fingers felt the pilum a few feet away. Structus waited until Westalis was in close range, pretending to still be recovering from his latest fall. It was more of a lucky shot, but Antonius stretched out as far as he could, felt his sinews and muscles scream in protest, twisted the javelin upwards, right between Brictius' feet, and brought him down with force.

Upon seeing their commander being felled, stunned silence all around erupted. Until a single laugh broke the silence. It was coarse and came from no one else but the very man on the ground. With an agile hop, the Centurion got back up and regarded the exhausted, panting man laying on his back on the ground. Antonius cracked an eye open and saw Brictius looming above him, face equally smeared with mud.

Eventually, his lips parted to reveal white teeth.  
“Not the most notable fight, but what you lack in strength, you make up in cunning.”  
After an initial moment of hesitation, Antonius accepted the outstretched hand.

When momentum brought them close together, he heard the low growl the commander gave just before he released him. “Next time, however, I won't play nice.” Watching him walk away, Antonius was about to hobble off to collect his dirty chores and nurse his sore body somewhere in peace when he got flanked by another, fairly imposing officer.  
  
His hair was as black as a raven, his jaw strong, and his cornflower blue eyes blazed with thinly veiled dislike. “The Centurion does not like to be ridiculed. I would be careful around here if I were you.” Antonius frowned at the taller man, but the latter brushed past him without another word.

* * *

Later that evening, the military council held their daily tactical meeting.  
  
“We have received new orders. The Etruscans are supposed to have moved further up north.”  
Brictius Titanus Westalis clasped his hands behind his back and nodded at his Decanus to continue his report.  
“Orders are to meet with the surrounding five centuriae to form a cohort.”

All heads then turned to look at their commander. The Centurion never sat down during a meeting, and his troops and subordinates were used to him pacing the tent. Octavian Janus Quintus, notably known for being one of the finest archers of the century, cleared his throat. “What do you suggest we do, Centurion?” Westalis cast him a brief look before his eyes flew back to the strategical map on the table.  
  
“Go assemble all of your mounted auxiliary archers. We might need them soon.”  
  
The Decanus nodded and rose to his feet to leave the tent as dismissed as he was. The remaining officers gathered around their commander's table as he pointed out a potential marching route. “Current state of supplies?” Westalis cast his second-in-command a look. Cato Josephus Kryptonius moved to stand close by. “Most men still have between ten to six day's worth of rations.”

The young man from Kryptonia had fought hard for his title as Westalis' optio – the 'chosen one'. It earned him the right-hand-man state in battle, even if he was still hoping to extend his boundaries over into the Centurion's nightly quarters. Brictius nodded and crossed his arms over his chest.

“We will head out at the break of dawn.”

 


	3. Chapter 3

After they had set fire to the rest of the palisade and the remains of their camp, the century began marching forward into enemy territory. Antonius spent his time on the back of a sturdy little pony, together with a folded up tent and supplies, trying hard not to become seasick. He had come to the conclusion his former lifestyle did definitely not include being a military man or a good equestrian.

As with most places they passed by, it became clear that the Roman army had left its mark wherever it went, creating roads, depots and bases. None of the areas seemed to trigger a memory within Antonius, and he resented to staring dully ahead as the pony obediently trotted on.

Further up front, the command group rode along their bodyguard of picked troops, followed by mules carrying artillery and the main body consisting of the century's legionaries. “Centurion?” Cato Josephus Kryptonius made his horse close up to that of his commander.

“Yes?”

“Why do you insist on taking him along?”  
Keeping his eyes trained straight ahead, Brictius slightly loosened the reins of Vespertilio.  
“I assume you are talking about Structus.”

The look upon Kryptonius' face at the name spoke volumes as he snorted quietly. Westalis' lips curved into a smirk. “You do not seem well-inclined to his presence.” Cato harrumphed. “How can I? Everyone knows that slaves should not be allowed to follow on the march into hostile territory, and yet here he is.” Westalis squinted, though it was aimed at something on the horizon.

“Structus is not a slave.” He then allowed himself a glimpse at the morose face to his left. “Are you questioning my orders, Optio?” Cato gave a negating tilt of his head. “No, Centurion.” Brictius nodded in grim satisfaction. “Good. Check on the cavalry at the flanks of the column.” Without another word, Kryptonius drew in the reins of his Arabian breed and veered out to the side, his red cloak billowing in the wind.

Brictius Titanus Westalis made his men go twenty miles that day, only taking a break when they found a place secure enough to set up a fortified camp. Being a master tactician in Roman military engineering, the Centurion then had his special unit build a fort with the help of raw materials. Made from earth, turf, and timber, the construction was done in around four hours.

The square, mini fortress featured a palisade and a deep ditch, guard towers, high walls, and a hospital. Way before dusk settled over the horizon, the camp stood secured and guarded amid the lowlands. Inside, bonfires were lighting up the night, and every group of eight soldiers made use of their frying pan to eat stew mixed with the wild boar some of the archers had acquired during their march.

The commander's tent was also warmly lit. Two silhouettes moved behind closed curtains.

“The patrols have been sent out according to your wish, Centurion.”  
Stuffing a handful of fruit into his mouth, Brictius put his sandal-clad feet up on the table in front.  
“It does pay off to exploit useful intelligence in the face of an impending clash in the field.”

Cato put the bowl of grapes aside, but within reach, and went to take a seat opposite of his commander. In the process, the fingers of his left hand lightly brushed along the strong set of rear deltoids of Brictius' upper back. “How long do you plan on staying?” Westalis shrugged. “Several days to study the terrain and opposition. And to give the troops time to prepare for battle.”

“Final outcomes can always be unpredictable.”  
At Kryptonius' quiet demur, Westalis crossed his ankles.  
“It's why we gather as much information as possible beforehand.”  
  
“We could try to mount a raid to probe for weaknesses.”  
The look Brictius threw him was one of dismay.  
“Skirmishing usually gets out of hand. Last thing we need is a hasty forward launch.”  
  
With a swift move, he got up. “I want the troops well-rested and fed. Moderate exercise until we hear back from the patrols.” His tone spoke of dismissal as Brictius went to prepare for bed rest. Left behind, Cato had no choice but to also get up and remove himself for the night. “What if death is smiling at us just around the corner?” A wolfish grin tugged at the Centurion's lips as he stood by the fireplace, half of his face shrouded.  
  
“Then we'll just smile back."

* * *

Feeling sore from the long journey spent on a bobbing pony, Antonius tried to force his tormented muscles to fall asleep. When he did not succeed, he got up and hobbled outside, past his snoring fellow servants. Outside, the stars shone brightly onto the guards high up on their watchtowers. His late-night stroll led him out on the avenue between the soldier and the commander bunks, towards the outer rim of the camp.

As soon as he spotted the silhouette of a tall figure up on the palisade, keeping a silent vigil, Antonius instantly recognized the rigorous stance even from down below. He cleared his throat to announce his presence and avoid getting attacked. “Are you trying to reach for the stars, Centurion?” Westalis did not turn around; a sign that he very well had heard him approach.

“The stars incline us, they do not bind us.”

With great difficulty at his protesting leg muscles, Antonius clambered up until he stood in respectable distance to the commander. Brictius only cast him a brief, sideways glance, before his eyes fell back out into the dark vastness that surrounded them. “Why are you up?” The question spoke of displeasure. Structus put his foot up against a wooden stake and tried to relieve his sore calf muscles.

“I could not sleep. I am fairly certain that you are not here for the same reason, because you are most likely not feeling sore from riding a horse.” That got the stern tug around Westalis' mouth to lessen, even if only a little. “Ask the Medicus for willow or fennel. You are going to spend more time on horseback than you think.” Antonius switched his feet and the Centurion went back to surveying the perimeter.

“Are you keeping watch?” A mere shrug-or-nod was his answer. “Don't you have enough brave soldiers to do that for you? Keeping watch I mean?” When Westalis looked at him again, the usual frown was back in place. “We are more or less in a continuous state of war. A soldier always has to be on the lookout.” Antonius tilted his head and focused on massaging his cramping calves.  
  
“Do you believe in the necessity of defending and imposing your cultural superiority on others?”  
Structus saw firm resentment in the commander's eyes, together with his prompt response.  
“Absolutely, yes. We are part of a well-trained and highly disciplined fighting machine.”

“I am not sure if I ever was part of this machine myself. War is sweet to the inexperienced.”  
At his words, Brictius' mouth became a thin, pinched line.  
“No one in this country is a saint. Mortal actions never deceive the gods. That's the truth.”

Structus mulled over his words for a while. Then he dared to gave a little hum and tilt of his head. “Veritas est adaequatio intellectus et rei – Truth is the conformity of the intellect to the things.” Westalis put one elbow up on the balustrade, his other arm going for the hilt of his trusted sword. “Your mouth speaks of great wisdom and yet you have no recollection of your self.”

It came out harsher than he had intended, and resulted in Structus averting his gaze to turn away and look out into the dark. “In the end, we all act according to what we believe ourselves to be, no?” Westalis' sneer was quiet, but audible. "What do you believe you are?” There was a baiting undertone in his voice. It prompted Structus to respond with equal haughtiness  
  
“Right now I am a servant, Centurion. Perhaps these things will be good to remember one day.”

Quick and hurried footsteps from down below interrupted their conversation. Westalis leaned over the balustrade to look down to where a young, breathless strator stumbled closer. After he had caught his breath, the boy, not much older than sixteen at most, looked up with fright.  
  
“Centurion? Some of the patrols have returned! They say we are about to be under heavy enemy attack!”

* * *

Five minutes later, Brictius Titanus Westalis glimpsed into the round of fellow officers in his tent.

“Deploy the troops.” A glimpse at his Optio and his Decanus. “Have the cavalry positioned in support for the heavy infantry. The only chance we have is if we get to harry them from the flanks!” Kryptonius and Quintus nodded in unison, despite the tension written all over their faces. In less than twenty minutes, the whole garrison was armed and ready at the gates.

From afar, Antonius saw Brictius Titanus Westalis up on his mighty, black Andalusian horse up front, followed by a contingent of his second ranked aeneatores, as well as the century's cornicen and signifer. Westalis' barked out commands echoed through the night as he spurred Vespertilio on. He surveyed the ranks of legionaries in their respective files, six men abreast. Eventually he raised the sword in his fist.

“We will sweep away any enemy that confronts us in the field! Victory will be ours!”

His century roared in unison as they repeated the gesture with their weapons. Battle cry on his lips, Westalis gave the signal to which the century set into motion. They were gone in a whirl of hooves and dust and metal clatter, heading out to face their enemies. Left behind were the servants who watched them go, among them Antonius Eduardus Structus.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some (butchered?) quotes used in this one, of various sources. See Wikipedia for Latin quotes


	4. Chapter 4

It was still pitch black when Antonius woke from his light nap to the sounds of thunderous hooves. Quick to slip into some shoes, he stuck his head out of the tent and scanned the surroundings. An overall commotion indicated that the century was about to return, but something must have had gone wrong, because of those that were arriving, many were shouting, some were crying in pain.

Antonius broke into a run towards the Centurion's tent, trying to find out if the leader had already returned as well. The tent was empty and sparsely lit. Before he could slip out again unnoticed, agitated voices right outside were heard. “The valetudinarium is too crowded! Bring him in here!” Seconds later, the tent's entrance flew open, and four men stormed in, carrying a prone figure in their midst.

Antonius stumbled and fell backward as they rushed past him. From his place on the ground, he caught a glimpse of the bloodied and battered countenance of the Centurion. His armor was torn apart in the front, just below the ribcage. Remains of what seemed to be broken arrows were sticking out. The Medicus was already close by his side, giving orders.

He took off the helmet and cingulum militare from his commander before he dared to get close to the actual wound.  
“I have to cut incisions on the other side and push the arrowheads all the rest of the way through.”  
Alfredus Thaddeus Petronius looked around and yelled for hot water, vinegar, and clean rags.

His eyes then found the horror-stricken countenance of an unwanted guest in the back. “What the...? Get him out!” Someone shoved him, and Antonius had no choice but to comply, stumbling out. His eyes remained trained on the bloodied body on the table as long as possible. As soon as he stood outside of the Centurion's tent and watched the silhouettes move around, blood-curdling screams filled the air.

Squeezing his eyes shut, Antonius stumbled off to help a chariot stuck in a trench. His stomach in knots, he deliberately kept busy and supported wounded soldiers, collected weapons and armor parts off the ground for proper cleaning and repairing, and gathered up exhausted horses. Amid all the chaos, he brought the ones which had not been killed or severely wounded back to their stables.

All animals were anxious from the overall upheaval, but Antonius attempted to feed them water and barley until they stopped to move irregularly in their confines. When he approached the Centurion's mighty steed, it immediately pinned its ears back and flared its nostrils at him with a low, dangerous snort. “Easy there, I am not going to hurt you.” Pawing sounds could be heard from behind the stable door.

The black Andalusian fixated him with an eerie glare, and Antonius made sure to move in calm, controlled motions.  
“He is going to be fine.”  
His fingers clenched around the bucket of water.

“You have taken good care of him in battle.”

* * *

It seemed to take forever until the physician came out of the tent, his white linen tunic soiled deep red. He was swaying on the spot from exhaustion and was supported by two large guards. From where he had cowered in a nearby corner, Antonius got up, summoned his courage, and stepped in their way. “How is he?” Half-expecting to be pushed aside again, he was surprised when the Medicus haltered his steps.  
  
“Resting. His wounds are deep, and he has lost a lot of blood. The battle opened prematurely – all of them never stood a chance.” Petronius exhaled with gloom and looked him up and down. “Go inside and take first watch. I will have to treat the wounded before I can check on him again.” Antonius' eyes widened in surprise. He looked left and right to make sure he understood correctly.  
  
“Me?”  
Petronius' grim expression did not waver.  
“It was your name on the Centurion's lips.”  
  
Inside the darkened tent, the metallic smell of blood mingled with a sickly sweet odor of sweat. Brictius Titanus Westalis was laying on his back, the mangled heap of what used to be his armor in the corner. The Centurion's torso was bandaged with large strips of linen through which a reddish color was seeping through. Antonius slipped on the nearby seat and let his eyes roam over the still man's face.

Perspiration beaded on Westalis' upper lip and forehead, and he was breathing in short, hard gasps. As soon as a hand reached up, shaking, Antonius took it without thinking. The commander's grip was strong, despite his condition. His skin was too hot to the touch, however, and Structus fumbled to get his free hand on the rag on his forehead. He dipped it into a nearby bowl filled with cool water.

“All of them die... I've let them die.”  
  
The agitated mumblings began to increase in sound as Westalis became restless. Antonius dabbed at his cheeks before putting the rag back on his forehead. “Rest easy, commander. Your men are safe.” Westalis swallowed with great difficulty. “Vespertilio... where... is he?” Not knowing whom he spoke about, Antonius squeezed his hand with care. “Shh. I am sure he is safe.”

As the Centurion shook his head, the rag slipped down to the side. “... all I have left... my parents... they gave him to me when I... was seven... I cannot lose... anymore.” It dawned on the other man just what the commander spoke about. “Everything is going to be alright, Centurion. You have to rest.” Antonius dipped the cloth into the bowl once again, wringing it out one-handed.

“No.... don't... you understand... they are dead. I saw... they murdered them... in front of me...” Brictius' eyes snapped open as Antonius gently put the cool rag on his forehead once more. They were dark and dilated and frantic with fever. “My parents... couldn't... save them. Can't... save... anyone.” The other man swallowed and glimpsed at their joined hands.

“You've saved me, Centurion.” The delirious soldier squinted at him, making Antonius wonder whether he even recognized whom he was speaking to. “And Vespertilio is safe and sound in his stable. I took care of him. I swear on my life.” At that, Westalis stopped fidgeting. His eyes rolled in the back of his head just before his head lolled sideways.

Antonius Eduardus Structus continued to hold his hand, feeling the muscles spasm and twitch, until exhaustion took over and allowed Westalis to slip into a deeper sleep.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> valetudinarium = (military) hospital
> 
> cingulum militare = military belt decorated with metal fittings, worn as a badge of rank


	5. Chapter 5

Over the course of the following two days, the Medicus kept his patient on bed rest, no food, and only sips of warm water. On the third day, the wound got uncovered, washed, and re-dressed. On the fifth day, Albertus had it examined. “A little bit inflamed, with thin, soft skin. Some more honey will be needed, but...” He looked up and into the small round of anxious faces of Westalis' officers hovering in the back.

“... the worst is over.”

As soon as Brictius was able to sit up, the first thing he requested was to get out and see his troops. “Beard grows, head doesn't grow wiser.” Petronius' huff was one of gruff affection as he collected his tools. The man who once was his protege and now his current commander took the admonition without complaint so that the Medicus eventually conceded. “But just briefly, Centurion.”  
  
Under the faint rays of sunshine, Westalis walked out onto the camp's assembly area in slow but self-assured steps. Glimpsing into a round of eager faces, he cleared his throat. “You have fought brave and strong as expected. Cut down, we only grow back stronger! We may have lost one battle, but we will win this war! For Rome!” Many of his soldiers were wounded as well, a mass of bandages and crutches, but they cheered on.

Cato Josephus Kryptonius then strode into the middle of the half circle and drew his sword. “There is a coward among us! A coward who abandoned the body of our fallen commander on battlefield.” A murmur went through the legionary's crowd. Cato pointed his blade around until it found the scared, pale face of a rather delicate man in the third row.

Two soldiers left and right were quick to grab him by the collar and hurl him forward until he stumbled to his knees in front of Kryptonius. “He shall receive punishment in form of decimation for his cowardice! He shall be executed by stoning!” Affirmative hooting from all around. Before the legionaries could go and gather appropriate stones, a single, stern voice boomed through the uproar.

“Stop.”  
  
Confused, Kryptonius looked at the hand on his arm. Westalis gave a single, slow shake of the head.“He shall be given barley rations instead of wheat. Moreover, he will have to camp outside the fort until further orders.” Kryptonius seethed. “But... Centurion! I... don't understand! This man could have caused your demise. Without penalty, there is no law!” Their eyes met; dark blue warring with greenish hazel for the longest time.

Westalis' mouth curled with something akin to chagrin at having to put his foot down. “There is a difference between penalty and revenge. Tu ne cede malis, sed contra audentior ito*.”With a final, dismissive gesture, Brictius motioned for his guards to take the soldier away for punishment. Cato looked at him with fire in his eyes, but sheathed his sword and lowered his head in acceptance.

Westalis squeezed his shoulder, trying to mask his exhaustion, and excused himself. Instead of going back to his tent, however, the commander's steps took him over to the horse stables. Much to his surprise, Antonius Eduardus Structus was there, too, idly sweeping hay in front of his stallion's booth. In amazement, Brictius watched the man talk with the gelding as he swung the broom around.

At some point, he even dared to reach out and patted the animal's head. About to intervene before the gullible man would lose an arm or worse, Brictius was surprised to see his horse respond with a gentle nudge to Structus' arm. He then decided to make his presence known and stepped forward. “Vespertilio is usually not... inclined to strangers.” Antonius looked up in surprise. At the sight of the still pale commander, his face lit up.  
  
“Ave, Centurion. Oh, he and I have bonded over the past few days, haven't we? Hm?”

Tame as anything, the burly steed shook his mane and went for the small satchel across Antonius' chest. Indignant, Structus swirled around his broom, away from the curious nostrils and mouth. “Hey! I thought we agreed on only one per day. You're a little greedy pony, that's what you are.” When he was done piling up hay, Antonius eventually put the broom aside and reached into the satchel to produce a handful of figs.

“Alright, alright - I shall make an exception... but only because of the Centurion's re-convalescence.”  
  
The steed gobbled the fruit out of his palm and made him chuckle softly at the tickling sensation. Brictius limped closer, still baffled by the strange scenery. At his approach, Vespertilio bumped against the stable door, excited upon seeing him again. With a tutting sound, Antonius was quick to put his now empty palm over the horse's nostrils. “Whoa there, hold it will you. He is not ready to bounce around with you yet.”

Westalis shushed him with a glower and stepped up to pat his horse. “This is none of your concern.” The gelding nuzzled into his touch, and Brictius' eyes became soft again. “Good boy. I've missed you, too.” Feeling dismissed, Antonius strolled away with a dejected hunch in his shoulders. He walked past the by now familiar structures of the camp, to abscond into the area outside the camp.

The ocean glistened at him in the distance, taunting him with its apparent never-ending freedom and breadth. Not looking back, he kept on walking, until his feet were getting wet. He idled in shallow waters only first, but something in the back of his head told him he knew how to swim. The sea was warm and welcoming, and he allowed himself to drift upon the lazy waves for the longest time.

Far away signals played by the buccinators marked the time as usual, and Antonius eventually had to give up his solitary spot of peace.

* * *

When he returned to the camp a little before curfew, it was to an agitated and furious Centurion who blocked his way before he could head for the servants' tent. He all but dragged Structus into a nearby, empty tent, roughly propelled him onto a chair and pointed a finger at him. “Where the hell have you been all the time?” Antonius locked his jaw. “I'm just a simple servant, Centurion, I can do and go where ever I please.”

Westalis' eyes narrowed in undisguised vexation. “The fuck you are a servant. At the end of the day, you're nothing but a prisoner of this camp. Should you ever have the audacity to escape again, I will have you shackled and flogged at the marketplace for a day. Naked. In front of the whole century.” Equally indignant, Antonius sneered up in his face.

“I knew it. Your lenience is nothing but mockery, and _you_ are nothing but a total fucker. Screw you and the horse you rode in on!” He stood up, to which Brictius' nostrils flared in anger. He slammed his palms on the table, causing some used cups to topple over. “I should have some sense fucked into you by that horse to shut your big mouth.” As their argument gained in intensity, their faces got closer.

“I'd rather be fucked by you, Centurion.”  
  
At that, Westalis held back whatever he was about to say. Instead, his eyes darted from Structus eyes to his mouth. Both were breathing hard all of a sudden, and Antonius dared to run the tip of his tongue over his lips. “Right here and now.” When their mouths collided seconds later, hands curled within each others tunic, Antonius soon tasted blood upon his tongue.

It was only the trumpeter’s call for the daily evening assembly that drew them apart after several heated minutes. Brictius heaved a deep breath and pulled back first. His cheeks were flushed, mouth red and swollen, and he adjusted his loincloth in a brisk move. “No. Not like this. You deserve to be thoroughly fucked.” He stormed off, leaving behind a very confused and equally aroused man.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * You should not give in to evils, but proceed even more boldly against them


	6. Chapter 6

The fabrica was a place that always intrigued Antonius most at the camp.

It was an area where engineers were working with metals and wood; building and repairing the artillery used on the battlefields. Something inside the amnesic man stirred and itched at the prospect of working with them. In the past weeks, he often found himself bored out of his mind whenever he was done with his chores, scribbling construction plans into the sand behind the servants' tent.

After his latest brush with the Centurion, the two men had not spoken again, leaving Structus unsure of his own, current status. Two days later he, therefore, decided to wait until he saw Westalis heading for his tent alone. The commander had just returned from the first, tentative training run after his injury, and was stretching his calf muscles against a tent pole. Following him at a distance, Antonius cleared his throat.

“Ave, Centurion. If you have a minute, I want to show you something.” Brictius looked up. “What is it?” His gruff voice did not put Antonius off. “I need to show you from outside the camp. Follow me. Down to the sea. It won't take long.” Unmasked mistrust shone back, and Structus sighed to himself. “There might be a way of reinforcing the defense mechanism of the camp even further.”

Westalis did not laugh in his face as he had silently feared at first. Instead, he wiped his arm over his forehead and straightened up. “Show me.” They headed out on foot, past the gates where the guards snapped at attention at their commander passing through. A ten-minute walk later, with the ocean idling behind them, Antonius turned towards the camp and pointed his finger at the walls.

“If the stakes are put up vertically on the rampart, the barriers are not strong enough. Any opponent could easily pull them out of the ground if they only get close enough.” From their vantage point at the waterside, Structus then pointed towards the camp's watchtowers. “There's too much symmetry down there. If we use portable frames covered with projecting wooden spikes, we could avert intruders with even greater force.”

For a while, Westalis said nothing and merely examined the construction, arms folded. His frown was thoughtful as he looked at Structus. “Can you do it? Back up your foolish ideas?” The shorter man pushed out his chest and pursed his lips. “Confide in me, Centurion. Give me access to the fabrica, and I will give you powerful weapons.” After another couple of heartbeats, Brictius outstretched his arm.  
  
“You are a smart man, Antonius.”  
Heart pounding in his chest, Antonius stepped closer to clasp his forearm just below the elbow.  
“Even if I am about to do something stupid now?”  
  
A frown started to reappear on the Centurion's face. Antonius then got on his toes, tilted his head and leaned in. Westalis' lips were warm and dry, a bit chapped, but instantly pliant to return his kiss with fervor. Instincts kicking in, Brictius drew back first and glimpsed back, into the direction of the fort. “Not here.” Antonius tugged at his arm and began to pull him towards the water. “Follow me.”

They divested each other of their clothes and swam out of plain sight of the camp, into a little cove.

Both were hard by the time they made it onto the small shore, and their fingers groped for wet, bare skin. Before he could object, Antonius found himself wrapped around his waist and thrown onto the sand. Brictius' solid, wet body then started to grind against his amid the lapping waves of the ocean. His skin was paler than Structus' own; covered in freckles and lathered with a multitude of old and new scars.  
  
“You should... heed.... your health...”  
Antonius' stuttered objection got caught up in the throes of desire and elicited a dark growl from above.  
“I am.”

When Brictius then reached down in between them with one hand to apply even more, manual friction, it prompted Antonius to come with his back arched up, his head tilted back, and an unabashed moan torn from his throat. With a shuddering breath, Westalis followed him soon after, continuing to milk them both until the sweet, blissful feeling eventually subsided.

He then rolled off him and rested on Structus' right side, closing his eyes against the warm rays of the sun. After a few moments, he felt Antonius lick saltwater off his skin with a warm tongue. “Tell me this wasn't... isn't wrong.” At the mumbling against his shoulder, Brictius turned onto his side to run his fingers through his dark, wet locks, combing them back. “There is no one around to answer for but us and the Gods.”

Swimming back, they got dressed and returned to the camp as if nothing had happened.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fabrica = "workshop"


	7. Chapter 7

The next day, Antonius got his chance to demonstrate his skills by improving the camp's security. He did a first, circumspect walk around the fabrica, inspecting the present tools and exploring his options. On his behalf, the builders then began to lash stakes in pairs along logs of wood, at intervals to form a solid defense with a hand grip at the center to bind the stakes together. It made for an easy but practical asset in battle.

The fact that Structus indeed seemed to be a formidable engineer who was able to facilitate battlefield situations had Brictius in silent fascination. Whenever he was not out training with his century, Westalis would therefore go and pay the fabrica regular visits. In what were no more than four days, the dark-haired man had managed to create a perilous-looking construct made from wood and metal plates.

It featured a main stand with a slider on top, two levers with torsion springs, as well as a claw and a manually turned spool in the back to pull the bowstring. Antonius was always around the invention; either dangling down from it or sitting up on the slider, fastening the iron nails himself. Upon Westalis' final visit, Kryptonius joined him at the fabrica's entrance. They watched the monstrous weapon that was now twice their height.

“Is it even lawful to be taught by an enemy?”  
  
Brictius' smile turned slightly devilish.  
“One is innocent until proven guilty, Cato.”  
His unusual merry retort caused Kryptonius to grit his teeth.  
  
“If you say so, Centurion.”

* * *

When the first demonstration was about to take place, the Centurion made his whole garrison gather around to watch. Antonius Eduardus Structus was prancing along in front of the huge wooden missile weapon; enjoying the attention, rapt murmurs and glances his construction created.

“This weapon is able to shoot up to two talents at once! It will end every siege warfare in your favor by launching projectiles at a distant target. There will be another version for the use of arrows, which can easily decimate the enemy's cavalry up to a 600 steps.” Murmurs from the spectator ranks erupted, as the legionaries craned their necks to inspect the new artillery from all sides.

“The weapon can be dismantled with ease, and its components may be transported just as easily in the baggage train. It also adapts to changing weather conditions without losing its accuracy." He glimpsed at the commander who remained silent, watching the demonstration with crossed arms and his trademark, unreadable expression. Antonius cleared his throat, trying not to let his nervousness creep through.

"So, now, for your consideration – I present: The ballista.”

He made an inviting widespread gesture and instructed three infantrymen to start drawing the massive bowstring back. They had loaded the weapon with two heavy, spherical stones in advance, giving them time to show off the most important part of getting the ballista ready to fire. Antonius raised one arm in the air, and with a penchant for dramatic performances, he lowered it.  
  
“Fire!”  
  
With a rattling, massive sound, the bowstring got released, causing the stones to fly high through the air, only to land far away on the empty grassland with dull thuds. Many soldiers broke into a round of spontaneous applause. An excited strator was then sent to measure the distance. It took a while for him to come running back. “A little more than three steps, Centurion!”  
  
Brictius shared a small but appreciative glance with the short engineer who beamed back at him.

“Very well. We may put it to good use in the next fight.”

Later that night, Antonius found himself officially invited to the Centurion's tent to sum up the successful event. “We can even develop it further, especially into much smaller versions that could be easily carried.” Antonius' enthusiasm made Brictius break out into a small, honest smile as he grabbed an amphora. “I might have to alienate you from canteen duty. You do seem to have found your true passion.”  
  
The other man's long black lashes fluttered as he looked down at his calloused palms. “There are other... things... that arouse my passion even more, Centurion.” Westalis' left eyebrow arched upwards, but he said nothing. Instead he handed the other man a cup and poured him wine. The pottery clinked as they toasted each other. The wine was heady and thick, and Antonius licked his lips from the foreign taste.

Westalis watched him with an expectant look. “Do you like it?” Structus probed the aftertaste in his mouth and let his tongue run over his teeth. Then he nodded. “It is... very sweet.” Brictius smirked. While he also took a sip, his eyes never stopped regarding his guest over the rim. “A welcome relief from the bitterness that is life.” He downed his own cup and set it aside.

“We need sweet things every now and then to remind us we are human.” When he sat down on the small bunk, their thighs instantly touched. Antonius stopped drinking and turned his head to look down to where Brictius' hand was warm on his leg, brushing the tunic up bit by bit. Biting his lip, their eyes met again. Movement outside the tent erupted, and they drew apart.  
  
“Centurion?”  
Brictius stood up and clasped his hands behind his back.  
“Come in.”  
  
At the sight of Structus on the cot with a drink in his hand, the young Optio's face darkened. He stopped and stood in the tent's entrance. “I wanted to speak to you about the march, but if the time is not right....” Kryptonius' voice was made of steel. The commander shook his head, stoic as always. “You may stay.” With a glance over at his guest, Antonius was quick to nod, stand up, and place the used cup aside.  
  
“Good night.”  
On his way out, he almost bumped into Kryptonius' large silhouette that took up the whole entrance.  
“By your fame you have conquered envy.”  
  
Cato's hissed words left Antonius to rub a palm against his chest. He relished the cool air on heated cheeks as he stumbled off to his tent.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do believe Brictius and Antonius did not know 'feet' measurements yet, therefore this was used for reference:  
> https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Step_(unit)


	8. Chapter 8

With their two new, portable ballista weapons in tow, the century destroyed their current camp to march forward into a region close to the city of Novum Eboracum. Antonius was glad to be able to ride along on a chariot that time, avoiding horseback at all costs, even if it meant staying near the end of the long track. He even got himself pleasant company in form of Alfredus Thaddeus Petronius.

“I used to spend nearly my whole life up on a horse. These days, my body prefers the comfort of not having chafed skin and stiff muscles all the time.” Antonius smiled at the older man and held on tight as their chariot bumped over a patch of uneven terrain. “I think I never preferred anything else but comfort.” His smile became bitter. “Or maybe I did, but I have forgotten. Like... anything else.”

The physician cast him a sideways glance. “The human mind is a complex one. It might give out only the information the Gods deem necessary for you to live and act out upon.” Structus heaved a sigh. “I just want to remember. I have no objections against the life I lead now, especially with...” His gaze drifted up further front, to where he spotted the flicker of a helmet with its horse-hair crest on top.

Petronius followed his line of view and his brow furrowed, unbeknownst to the young man aside. “The military life is a hard one full of deprivations and sacrifices. The Centurion chose it, despite my best tries to talk him out of it.” Antonius' attention was all on the elder man again. “You did? Then why are you still...?” Petronius shifted his weight and tugged on his white, long cloak, one-handed.

“Oh, he most certainly did not expect me to stay by his side. But here I am, for many years now.” His eyes glinted with cheekiness, to which Antonius had to chuckle. “You and him share a history of merrier times, it seems.” Curiosity lay in his voice. Alfredus inevitably had to smile in reminiscence. “I raised the boy up. Taught him everything I knew, after he had no one else left in this world, except for that horse.”

Before the questions made it from Structus' eyes out to his mouth, a change in pace seemed to take place further up front. Both Petronius and Structus craned their necks. The constant thrum of the heavy-marching feet around them began to slow down as a huge lithic post loomed up in the distance. “Looks like we have arrived.” At the Medicus' quiet assessment, Antonius regarded the massive building in front of them with awe.

“Looks like the builders get a free evening tonight as well.”

The permanent garrison, normally used to control local and external threats from war-like tribes, was a true fort meant for one legion. The scouts Brictius sent out soon confirmed their leader's suspicion that it lay empty, thus offering more than enough space for Westalis' unit. He decided to stay, seeing the weather conditions were rapidly changing to colder temperatures, and the grounds were frozen.

Commotion was high for a while as the century got settled in.

The fortress consisted of a spacious courtyard, several workshops as well as plenty of barracks for the soldiers, three granaries that were sadly only filled halfway, a hospital, and a bathhouse. Out of gray skies, snow began to fall soon after their entry, and the first real taste of winter caused great merriment among the legionaries. Most auxiliary forces came from countries never to experience such weather conditions.

In no time, the atrium of the fort was covered in white, and became a playground for grown-up men.

Sparse smirk on display, Brictius Titanus Westalis strode high upon the canopied gallery, alongside Alfredus Petronius. Both men were dressed in warm cloaks -a deep red for the Centurion, and bright white for the Medicus- and observed the spectacle with their hands clasped behind their backs. “Like little children, all of them.” At the underlying rebuke, the Medicus threw him a meek glance.

“Blessed are those who preserve some of their worldly innocence.” Brictius huffed quietly. “Trust me to have to bring them to reason and spoil their playful time in favor of things that need to be done.” His eyes found and lingered on the figure of Antonius Eduardus Structus, who skidded through the snow with a gleeful laugh. Alfredus followed his Centurion's line of view and smiled again, benevolent that time.  
  
“You have decided to trust your heart when it comes to his fate, at least.”

“Have I?” Brictius' lips twisted with a bout of irony that was ostensible. “How would you know?” The Medicus gave a slight tilt of his head and watched how the dark-haired man down below tried to scoop up an armful of snow. “I can see it on your face when you look at him.” Westalis unclasped his hands to put them up on the lithic balustrade instead. “It is a decision I cannot justify any rational way.”  
  
He sounded disappointed in himself, to which a hand on his arm appeared. “Feelings are not rational, my Centurion.” A gust of wind blew at the bangs on Brictius' forehead as he turned his head. “I do not have the luxury of feelings on the battlefield, Alfredus.” His elder confidant gave a firm but gentle squeeze to his skin. “Maybe you do not, but whenever you leave the battlefield, they allow you to heal from the inside.”

* * *

As soon as the fires were lit and the legionaries had warmed their sodden tunics and woolen socks, the smell of cooked wheat and fried veal wafted through the air all along the barracks. From where he had just finished his final patrol of the day, Cato Kryptonius pulled off his coarse mittens mid-stride and entered the principia; the headquarters for all things administrative regarding the legion.

It was situated at the center of the fortress, sparsely furnished, and provided only the bare necessities. He gave a polite knock on the massive wooden door and was rewarded with a crisp "Come in". Brictius Titanus Westalis sat at a barren desk, one hand supporting his forehead while he studied a papyrus that looked to be an official imperial dispatch. Cato noticed the fireplace was unlit, giving the room a chilled, stale feel.

“I assumed you were to resent the actual commanding officer’s house.”  
He was rewarded with a mere grunt as Westalis continued reading.  
“I have no use for its splendid opulence. The Medicus does have greater benefit from residing in it.”

Kryptonius forbid himself a smile at the gruff care that swung within the statement and cocked his head. “Everything is quiet outside, Centurion. The guards are on their posts, they are scheduled to change in the fourth watch of night.” The commander nodded and let the rough papyrus roll back together on its own accord. A deep cracking sound could be heard as he stretched his neck and back.

“Anything else?”

Cato saw his chance and straightened his shoulders, making him appear taller yet again. “Something more of a private opinion, actually. I am not sure it... merits your precious time.” His trained eyes very well saw the split second Westalis' eyebrow quirked. “You are one of my most loyal men, Kryptonius. I deeply value your opinion.” He grabbed a writing stylus and started taking notes on a wax tablet. Cato cleared his throat.  
  
“Not in every matter, Centurion.”  
  
Westalis' eyes flew up and rested upon his Optio's countenance. They reminded Kryptonius of a wild animal on the prowl; like one of those exotic panthers he had once seen at the Colosseum in Rome. “Meaning what?” Brictius' tone was snide, and Cato pursed his lips as if to forbid the words to slip from his tongue unfiltered. “Meaning you are neglecting your own health in favor of work, as usual.”

His commander let the stylus sink. The chair he sat in squeaked softly as he leaned back and crossed his arms.  
“You do look like you know just what I should do about this.”  
Feeling victorious, the young Optio allowed a smug grin to cross his chiseled features.

“Matter of fact I do.”

* * *

Half an hour later, the two officers sat inside the bathhouse that rested within the southern corner of the fortress. They each had taken a thorough wash and scrub with olive oil first before entering the caldarium. Even if it was a public institution, the bathhouse was empty at the time, except for a discreet servant who hovered in the back, kept the fires lit, and provided towels and wine in a nearby resting area.

“This has been an excellent idea after all.”

From where he lay on a warm stone bench on his back, arms crossed behind his head, Brictius' kept his eyes closed and smirked to himself as he soaked up the hot air that was rich with moisture. The only piece of clothing he wore was a moderately sized towel that was placed square across his hips. The skin on the rest of his body glistened in the dim light of a wall-mounted, flickering torch.

Cato Josephus Kryptonius sat one bench below, facing his commander's relaxed profile, and watched in silent admiration how little droplets rippled all over Westalis' bare body. He kept a tight hold on the towel around his hips and put one foot up on the bench, leaning back against the equally warm wall. “I am glad it met your expectations.” With a lazy blink Brictius craned his neck to be able to look at him.  
  
“It probably even exceeded them, which is uncommon. For that I shall be in your favor.” Roguish smirk on display he regarded the square-jawed countenance from close up, until Cato averted his eyes with a coy flutter of dark lashes. “Do not embarrass me, Centurion.” Westalis removed his right arm from underneath his head and reached out into the direction of the man by his side.

“Embarrassing you is something I would never dare, nor want to.” As his warm, wet palm brushed over a spot on Kryptonius' shoulder, the younger officer shivered. “Your skin is burning up. You need to get out of the heat soon.” Kryptonius swallowed and nodded. He remained sitting, however, as Brictius' fingers started to drum a little rhythm into his skin. The Centurion then stared up at the ceiling, and began to think out loud.   
  
“From the latest reports I have received, all signs are pointing towards battle once we reach the surrounding maniples. I need to be sure all men are well-trained and bear the right fighting morale. You and I are what bind this century together - I would not want anyone else to be at my side on the battlefield.” Head swimming, Cato's gaze longingly followed his slender fingers as Westalis drew back.

“A... always. Always, my commander.”

Brictius sat up and grabbed the towel from his crotch. “Good. We shall be invincible, Cato. Together we can achieve greatness. For our country.” With a final, longing stare at the tight, muscular backside of Westalis as he left for the frigidarium to close the pores, Cato swallowed once more and watched him plunge headfirst into a cold bath.

“Yes we... shall.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> caldarium = a hot room  
> frigidarium = a cold room


	9. Chapter 9

“Why are you not wearing proper attire in this weather?”  
Antonius sneered to himself without turning around and continued to work on a piece of log.  
“Too busy.”

On a gray winter's day, Structus stood in the windy atrium of one of the workshops and drew the wooden case sheathed with an iron plate over and over the same area with vicious intent. Brictius stepped around a considerable heap of chipped wood on the ground and lunged for his arm, stopping his motions. “Dressing for the weather makes the difference between sickness and health. Stop behaving like a fool.”  
  
Large brown eyes blazed up at him.  
“Any fool can be cold I guess.”  
The Centurion's face darkened at both his insubordinate tone and grown-out beard.  
  
“What the hell is wrong with you? Do not make me flog you for setting a bad example!”  
Structus looked from the hand on his cold skin up into the other man's scowl and back.  
“If that makes you happy, Centurion. I cannot bring you happiness otherwise, it seems.”  
  
Westalis let go of his arm and glared at a nosy passing servant who carried a large wooden stake.  
“Go catch a fever and fall ill, what do I care! I don't have time for your stupid little games!”  
He whirled around on his heel and began to march away through the sleet.  
  
“Less time with me means more time spent in the bathhouse.”  
  
There was bitterness and hurt in Antonius' voice. It prompted Brictius to slow his steps. In a swift move, the commander then flung his hooded, knee-length paenula at him. Catching it one-handed, Antonius almost dropped the cloak due to its heavy weight. “Put this on, wear it during work, bring it back to my quarters later.” Brictius then plowed onward in his long-sleeved tunic, heading for the principia without looking back.

When he was out of sight, Antonius wasted no time slipping into the still warm, woolen cloak. He wrapped it tight around his body and flipped the hood upon his head, inhaling the scent that clung to the fabric. A smile was on his lips as he continued to work, mindful of his precious loan.

* * *

The sentries high upon the watchtowers raised the alarm later that afternoon.

At the sound of trumpets and horns, the Centurion was one of the first up at the gate to inquire about the sightings. “We have counted thirty horses, Centurion. It is possible there are more, hidden in the forest.” Brictius' expression turned grim. “Everyone armed and up. I am going out.” He skipped down the ladder and pointed at Kryptonius and Quintus. “Follow me.”

Dressed in warm sagum cloaks that hid their swords well, the three of them rode out into the open, Vespertilio high and mighty in the middle.

“They do not know yet how much our horses love blood.”  
Quintus' merry voice caused Kryptonius to chuckle, and the Centurion's eyes to narrow.  
“Eyes front! Worry about them! Nothing else!”

His voice was sharp. It prompted Cato and Octavian to stop their banter and grip their weapons tight.

“Are the archers in position?”  
Like his commander, Quintus sat ramrod straight and kept his gaze ahead.  
“Yes, Centurion. At the first sight of trouble, they will shoot.”

They stopped their horses at a respectable distance to the waiting intruders. Warm gusts of breath steamed from the animals' nostrils into the cold evening air as their owners scanned the scenery. A single horse then drew free from the rows of opponents and dashed forward into their direction. As if on cue, Brictius held up an arm; a sign for his century back at the fort to hold their fire.

Snow whirled up at the foreign horse's hooves before it came to a standstill in front of Westalis and his two guards. The horseman regarded their uniforms before fastening his gaze upon the man in the middle. “Ave, Centurion.” Brictius returned the almost non-existent tilt of the head after a few moments. “Who are you, and what is the reason for your conduct?”

The man, who was older than any of them, was dressed in clothes Westalis did not recognize as true Roman armor. His beady eyes roamed along the walls of the fort behind them before he fixated Brictius with a malicious glare. “I am Abdias Leonius Stanius, and this garrison belongs to my gens. I request that you and your men clear it immediately.” Vespertilio gave a sudden, low snort and bared his teeth around the reins.

Brictius gripped his leash a bit tighter. “Who are the gens you are speaking about?” The man threw the large gelding a rotten stare and squinted at the young Centurion. “The Annuli Decem.” Westalis remained impassive. “I do not know you, or your gens. My troops occupied this fort before your arrival. We are not inclined to make way for strangers. We are also not averse to fight.”

He raised his arm again, that time at an angle of 90 degrees. As if on cue, a row of arrows landed close to the man's horse.  
The animal started to bolt slightly, and its owner had to fight to keep it in check.  
“You are making a mistake, son.”

The grin that slowly spread out on Brictius Titanus Westalis' face was laced with malicious glee. “For some inconceivable reason, you seem to believe that I should bestow immediate, unconditional respect and submittal upon you. Yet you are outnumbered and badly positioned. I think you are either foolish, reckless or both. As long as your head is still on your shoulders, I suggest you leave. Run.”

At the matter-of-fact voice of the younger man, which was accompanied by some shrewd smirks of his fellow officers left and right, Stanius' gaze turned deadly serious. “We will see each other again, Centurion. Either by meeting or the sword. Mark my words.” Without further ado, he yanked his horse's reins and drew the animal into a 180° turn, speeding off into the direction of his fellows.

Brictius kept his eyes on them, and his hand on his sword, until the whole group started to leave the clearing.

“I have never witnessed a more pitiful exchange of rivalries.”  
Brictius threw Octavian a pointed look as Vespertilio trudged through a batch of freshly fallen snow.  
“There is nothing rivaling about putting a fool into his place, Quintus.”

To his right side, Cato Josephus Kryptonius kept on stealing glances backward, wary of being followed.  
“Fools are more dangerous than we believe, Centurion. They usually have nothing to lose.”  
Hazel eyes shrouded by his galea helmet, Brictius frowned to himself all the way back to the fort.

* * *

Westalis doubled the guards high up on the watchtowers before he ordered his century to rest. He left for the principia where he took off his armor and brought the fireplace to life for the first time. It was already dark outside, and Brictius in the middle of running his trusted gladius along a sharpening stone, when a quiet knock woke him from his circling thoughts.

“I wanted to return your loan, as promised.”

Antonius had shaved and combed his thick, dark locks back. He wore a warm tunic and smelled of wood and leather as he came closer, eyes glinting with something between courage and apprehension. “And I came with a present in return.” He revealed a small amphora wrapped within the cloak. Brictius put the sword aside and stood up to take the garment from his arms, but made no move to take the bottle.

“As noble as your action is, the present situation does not seem proper for drinking.”  
At his refusal, Structus went to unscrew the amphora and raised it to his lips for a long gulp.  
“Always the military man, my Centurion. I wonder what made him change his mind after that time at the sea.”

His voice prompted Westalis to take the amphora from his hands before he could down its whole content. “Enough.” Structus blinked long lashes down to the floor. “I thought he was... in favor of me.” Brictius started to run his hands along the soft skin on Antonius' neck. The soft touches prompted the shorter man to smile and close his eyes. With a deep sigh, the Centurion leaned in close until their foreheads touched.

“Even if I am - a soldier usually cannot allow his body to be used for sexual purposes. It... distracts him from battle.” The engineer drew back with care and glimpsed up at his miserable expression. “Oh, but there is no battle to be fought here and now, Centurion.” One of Antonius' warm, calloused palms came up to touch Brictius' rough cheek. “Everything happens by our own peaceful accord.”

The wine tasted sweet on Antonius' lips, and Westalis moaned into his mouth as the shorter man melted into his body. Structus' free hand found its way from his chest down to his crotch, causing Brictius to growl with desire. “If only you knew the risks I am taking with you.” Antonius smirked against his mouth. “Maybe it is a good thing I do not remember anything. My mind and heart are open and unbiased.”

His fingers were just about to peel the woolen tunic off of Brictius' freckled shoulders when loud, frantic screams echoed through the night.

“Fire! FIRE!”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Annuli Decem = The Ten Rings  
> (it's probably pig Latin, though... apologies!)


	10. Chapter 10

When the Centurion stormed out of his room, sword drawn, two of the granaries were already ablaze. Fiery arrows were flying across the walls undeterred, even if a lot of them fizzled out within the snow-covered grounds, or bumped off of the walls to fall down without causing harm.

“GUARD THE GATE!”

Brictius braced one hand onto the lithic balustrade and leaped down into the courtyard with a mighty jump, cushioning the impact by performing a forward roll over one shoulder and sprinting on into the direction of the stables. His soldiers were already trying to put out the fire that raged on in their supplies. Loud, ear-splitting sounds of a battering ram being used to crash the gate reverberated through the night.

When wood gave way with a cracking sound, a never-ending stream of wild horseback riders poured in; brandishing swords, javelins, spears and spiked maces around. Cut off from reaching Vespertilio in time, Westalis gripped his sword with fierce determination and assessed the situation.   
  
“EVERYONE TO THEIR ARMS! DON'T LET THEM IN!”

Antonius heard the crackle of the fires, the battle cries of the legionaries, as well as their leader's voice, and decided to not wait any longer. He grabbed the first weapon he found, which turned out to be a lancea hung up for decorative measures, and slipped out onto the gallery of the headquarters. Dark, thick smoke billowed up and made seeing difficult, especially in the dark.

He managed to spot the Centurion in the atrium, wielding his gladius with relentless strength. At some point, Westalis even ascended the remains of the gate with a nimble jump, only to hurl himself onto their attackers moments later, slicing their armors and thrusting his massive blade into their bodies with a raging scream.

Next to him, always keeping him covered, Cato Josephus Kryptonius fought with sheer otherworldly force; at some point even wielding two swords at once in an ambidextrous fight. By the time the century had recovered from the shock of the treacherous attack, the intruding forces had managed to swarm the courtyard. It created a horrific chaos framed by a cacophony of screams and the clashes of steel blades.

Soon, the smell of soot mingled with the metallic flavor of blood. Octavian Janus Quintus spurred his horse on through the bedlam, firing arrows that hit the enemy riders right in the chests and heads, warding off their steady flow at the outer rims of the fort. One managed to evade all fired projectiles and zeroed in on where Westalis fought in a tight circle.

Antonius' eyes widened high upon his secured spot, and he gripped the spear in his hand in a ready-to-throw position. Through the clouds of heavy smoke, he saw how Kryptonius had been separated from Westalis, and how no one seemed to notice the horse approaching the commander at full speed. Then there was a glint of a blade being drawn. Structus' eyes widened in terror.  
  
“CENTURION!”

His voice, albeit loud, did not manage to get through, and that was when Antonius drew back his arm and threw the short javelin with as much force as he could muster up. It missed the attacker by far but managed to get stuck within the hind leg of his horse, drilling into its thick thigh. The animal bucked and reared up with an agonized whinny, causing its rider to drop from his saddle into the trampled snow ground.

Westalis swung around at that moment, gladius in a defensive position. He turned out of the way as the horse bolted, missing him by a whisker, and looked around. From where Antonius hung over the balustrade, chest heaving from adrenaline, their eyes met within a heartbeat; frantic and incredulous at once. The Centurion was quick to focus back on the man at his feet, seeing he was just starting to come to his senses. 

Brictius kicked him in the side to make him turn around, and when their eyes met, the young commander found himself staring at the man from the clearing, only mere hours before. Stanius spit out a batch of blood close to the Centurion's feet and looked up. His brows furrowed with incomprehension at the sight of the dark-haired man watching them from up above.

“Centurion! The remaining survivors have been rounded up.”

From the corner of his eye, Cato Kryptonius' red cloak all but flew within the wind as he hurried back over to his commander. Westalis wiped the back of his arm over his eyes to get rid of the burning flakes of ashes that obscured his vision and pointed his gladius closer at the attacker. “Get up on your knees, you bastard.” Stanius' helmet had been knocked off his head, revealing bald skin that sported a bleeding gash atop.  
  
“Go ahead – kill me. Do yourself a favor and end it. Right here and now. For your own good.”

Brictius' jaw worked behind the cheek plates of his steel helmet, but he said nothing even as the man at his feet did as he was told. The tip of his bloodied sword moved to sit square upon the defeated man's forehead, pricking the skin until a little rivulet of blood ran down and over his nose.

“My name is Brictius Titanus Westalis, and I am not of your disgusting, perfidious kind. Consider your pitiful life spared for the very last time. Should you ever cross my way again, however, there will be no more mercy to expect on my part.”

Brictius looked at his Optio standing in the back, sword still drawn and a battle-ready look etched on his soot-stained face. When he nodded at him in silent confirmation, Kryptonius went to take over and hurled the defeated man to his feet and into the direction of the other captives. A pair of hate-filled eyes once more found Antonius Structus' lone figure up above the atrium before Abdias Leonius Stanius was taken away.

With a huge exhale of breath, Brictius then sheathed his bloodied spatha back into its scabbard. He, too, turned to look over his shoulder and saw the engineer still clutching the wooden balustrade in a tight grip. Antonius fixated him with a look full of shock amid the gory scenery. Wordless, the commander pointed towards the principia but reminded himself to give Structus a reassuring nod as an afterthought.

It was then that the shorter man shook himself out of his stupor, returned the nod and removed himself from the scene to head back inside. Cato Kryptonius came back shortly after, stepping over dead bodies and puddles of red snow. “Do you want us to follow and strike the rest of them down before they reach their destination?”

Together they watched the enemy's few remaining horses disappear through the destroyed gate and down the slope. Brictius Westalis then gave a curt shake of the head. “Allow them to run. I'd rather deal with a disarmed, panicked, and demoralized mob instead of a force determined to fight to the last man. See to having the gates rebuilt and reinforced. I need to consult the Medicus about all casualties sustained.”

* * *

It took a while until Brictius returned to his quarters after Alfredus had briefed him. Aside from the damage done to their supplies, twenty legionaries had been injured during the battle, eight of them severely. The Medicus promised to do his best to save their lives and to report back to him in case of any changes.

Antonius was back inside his room, waiting for his return as requested. When Brictius entered, his hair was dripping wet from melted snow, and his armor and face were covered in grime and blood. He waved the other man off as the shorter man sprang to his feet, alarmed at the ghastly sight. “None of it is mine.” With a forceful clatter, his bloodied scabbard landed on the table.

Antonius then watched him dispose of all of his protective covers, until he stood there in his drenched under tunic, heaved deep breaths and scowled at nothing in particular. Structus approached him like a skittish animal; slow and deliberate. “I was fearing for you, Centurion.” Instead of an answer, Westalis nabbed him around the waist and drew him close. “I want you to say my name.”  
  
Faint hesitation shone back at him through large brown eyes.  
“I...”  
The first kiss Westalis captured him with was hot and hungry.  
  
“Say it.”  
Antonius swallowed, exposing a bobbing Adam's apple.  
“... B--Brictius.”  
  
“That's better.”  
He cupped Antonius' head in between his palms, kissed him again and looked him in the eyes.  
“Seeing it is I who is about to fuck you.”

 


	11. Chapter 11

Brictius took his time oiling them both from head to toe. Afterwards he went to scrub it off and took Antonius along into his bathtub to rinse off the remains. Once they were toweled dry, he ordered him to walk over and lay down on the cot naked, admiring the view as he slicked his fingers with olive oil anew. Antonius did as he was told, but raised his head to watch him sheath his arousal with oil.

“Are you turning me into your concubinus?”  
  
Brictius knelt down in between his legs and ran a hand along the sensitive skin of his testicles, watching the other man shiver not from fear, but anticipation. “Seeing your contribution to the latest successful battle was vital, you are more than that.” Brictius smolder grew into barely contained, visible desire as his finger ran deeper and pushed inside. Antonius shuddered with a low moan.  
  
“For now, however, you are turning around.” Already hard, Antonius did as he was told. His legs spread on their own accord, and the Centurion probed with his fingers until he entered him with a smooth, slick stroke of his shaft. Both men groaned at first contact, but when Brictius felt the muscles around him clench, he refrained from thrusting further.  
  
Bracing himself left and right of Structus' body, he felt a sudden desire to place a kiss on one of the prominent shoulder blades. “Stop?” Panting erupted. “No... I... s-soon. Just... a... moment...” Antonius' voice was a little breathless and muffled. After some more heartbeats, he exhaled. “Go on.” Westalis thought back to the last time he had bedded a young man, and how he had longed for a quick release.

Part of his still far too analytical mind wondered what made his latest conquest special, and he applied a little more pressure as if to reassure himself he was still in it for his own pleasure. The sound of slicked skin on skin filled the air for a while, until the angle seemed to shift. It was then that Antonius began to make sounds of true pleasure instead of barely contained pain.

The commander found those far more arousing, and out of instinct, his palms slid up on the bunk to cover the back of Antonius' hands. Their fingers then interlaced without hesitation, and Brictius leaned in once more to kiss his nape. By now, Antonius was keening and mumbling his name over and over. It took a lot of willpower for Westalis to not give into the heady rush that spread from his head all the way down to his groin.  
  
“You are making me lose control far too soon.”  
Antonius turned his head to be able to meet his lips for an askew kiss.  
“Want... you to... lose it for... me.”  
  
At the same time he tilted his pelvis up and gripped the slender fingers in his hand even harder. It prompted Brictius to quicken his pace until he buried his face in the crook of Antonius' neck and spent himself with a shuddering moan, hips bucking violently until he was completely spent.

As much as his ecstasy had overwhelmed him, Brictius was quick to recover. Joined intimately, he wound a strong arm around Antonius' midriff and turned them both onto the side so that he was able to reach for the other man's still prominent erection. His ministrations elicited a round of throaty groans, and it did not take long until warmth spurted all over his fingers.

They lay in sated silence for a couple of heartbeats, unmoving, until their bodies detangled on their own. Sweat beaded on the shorter man's temple, and Brictius pressed his lips against the warm pulse point. Antonius purred. “Can we do this again? Even without me worrying for your life beforehand?” The deep baritone was sleepy, and to go with it, Antonius snuggled up against the broad, muscular body.

With a dry chuckle Brictius shifted until he was able to get a blanket on top of them against the cold. “It does add a certain heroic aspect to the whole encounter.” Antonius popped an eye open. "You think I am out for that?” Brictius' wanted to draw his hand back, but Antonius had already interwoven their fingers again. “Each shall find what he desires.”

* * *

That time when Antonius woke with a distinctive soreness, he could not help but to smile at its source.

After a leisure stretch in the empty cot, seeing Brictius had already left for duty, he also got up and slipped back into his carelessly discarded clothes strewn on the floor. He glimpsed out to where the burnt remains of the nightly terror were more than visible in broad daylight. Servants and legionaries were already working hard and side by side to clear the atrium of charred beams and destroyed armory.

Bloodied snow was shoveled away, as were the dead bodies of the fallen attackers. It started to snow again at some point, and Antonius made sure to grab the thick, woolen cloak Brictius had left for him to wear. As he stepped out into the busy atrium, there was no sign of Westalis whatsoever. His second-in-command marched along the construction sites with an air of superiority and barked out orders.

“Ave, Optio. Where is the Centurion?”  
One look at his appearance, and Cato could not help but to display a scowl.  
“Out to supervise the incineration of the dead.”

Being much taller, Kryptonius made a point in looking over Antonius' head and instructing a soldier. His display of dismissal made the shorter man clench his jaw in silent frustration. “I shall be going to have a look outside the fort. The walls behind the granaries may have to be reconstructed after the fire.” At that, Cato glimpsed down at him with something like barely contained repel.

“I, for one, do not care what you do with your time, servant.”  
  
He made a dismissive move with his gloved hand and strode past, leaving Structus to glare daggers at his broad back. Wrapping his cloak tighter around his frame he stormed off. Fighting against the snow that clawed at his woolen-covered shins and made walking difficult, Antonius took some time until he had rounded the large fortress. The damage done to the crude stone enclosures seemed minimal at first sight.

He craned his neck, causing the hood to slip from his head and looked up. Those walls which had been subjected in a greater degree to the action of heat had a vitrified edge to them. Structus did not necessarily deem it a bad thing and went on scrambling closer to get a first feel for the melted stone. He was so preoccupied with his studies that he did not even notice getting company.

A bag made from dark cloth was thrown over his head from behind in a sudden move, cutting off any cries for help. 

In panic, he started to struggle, but when his attacker hit him hard above the head, Antonius immediately lost consciousness.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From Wikipedia: "A concubinus was a young male slave sexually exploited by his master as a sexual partner [...]"
> 
> (homosexuality in ancient Rome apparently was not as glorious as this fic makes it seem)


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mentions of torture/violence in the second part of this chapter - reader discretion is advised.

“Have you seen Structus?”  
Octavian shook his head as his commander passed him by.  
“Little fellow probably went to work on new weapons or something.”

Westalis frowned, but said nothing and went on with a nod. Seeing Alfredus was still busy tending to the wounded of the battle, Brictius reached out to the next person he ran across. “Kryptonius!” His Optio stopped talking to a bunch of legionaries and turned to face him. “Centurion?”

“Where is Structus?”  
Trying to keep the vexation from his face, Cato blinked twice, until he was all professional.  
“He wanted to see about the walls of the granaries. Probably just looked for a way to shirk work.”

Leaving his rebuke without comment, Westalis double checked all of the fabricae again, to make sure he had not missed the dark curly head loitering around somewhere in the corners. When he came up empty, he strode towards the renewed gate, demanding to pass through alone. Outside the garrison, it was considerably darker, even if the snow provided natural illumination.

With the cold winds tugging at his clothes and a steady snow flurry that blurred his sight, Brictius trudged through the knee-deep snow until he had reached the burnt site of where the granaries had taken a severe hit. There was no sight of Structus, and a faint, nagging fear started to rise in the back of Brictius' head. Then he saw it. Hoofprints; not quite recent, but not old enough to be snowed over completely.

With a huff he drew his sword and swung around, looking for anything, or anybody. There were neither; only harsh winds that howled around the corner of the lithic fortress, creating eerie, shrill melodies. A flickering torch then appeared in the distance; nothing but a blurry spot, until Kryptonius' tall silhouette manifested itself through the steady haze of snowfall.

Brictius kept on scanning the perimeter with meticulous eyes until Cato was by his side, watching him through the flickering torch.

“Something wrong, commander?”  
Westalis pointed to the imprints in the snow and motioned for his Optio to shine along the walls.  
“Possibly.”  
  
They walked side by side, with Cato providing light until Brictius stopped him with an abrupt motion of his hand. “Over there!” Kryptonius squinted at the wall, but the Centurion had already skipped over the frozen ditch that surrounded the fort. There was an arrow with a peculiar, large fletching stuck inside the masonry. Brictius reached up and tore it out of its spot.

A piece of parchment was attached to the projectile, and he fumbled it off with icy fingers.  
Smothering out its raw edges he then held it into the source of light to make out faint scribblings.

 _Centurion_  
_You have taken our refuge, so we have taken your token._  
_You should have learned your lesson when you were a child._  
  
_All hail the Annuli Decem_

Fueled by ire, Brictius crumpled the letter in his fist. After he had stood and stared into the solid curtain of falling snow for the longest time, there was a hand on his arm. “What is this about, Centurion?” Illuminated by the fire in his hand, Cato's cornflower blue eyes shone back at him with confusion. Brictius Titanus Westalis shrugged him off with a brisk move and refastened his crimson red cloak with its fibula* at the shoulder.

“War. Nothing more.”  
He looked up, letting the flakes hit his face and melt upon his skin.  
Determination was written all over his angular face when he tilted it back.

“And I will go and take back what's mine.”

* * *

The whip came cracking down on the bare backside for the umpteenth time, eliciting a low whimper.

“Are you still inclined to lie to my face, boy?”  
  
Antonius Structus, stripped naked and bound to a low pillar with his hands shackled together, squeezed his eyes shut against the agonizing pain and took shallow breaths. He could feel the warm sensation of blood running down his back and dribbling down his buttocks, to dissolve within the ground. “I... I do not... know you... I am... telling... truth...” Another set of lashes made him groan and howl out.

The whipping subsided, leaving only his shuddering and panting in the air. “You should have never survived the fall from the wall that night. It is almost as if the Gods are punishing me with your continued existence!” Anticipating another set of flogging, Structus lowered his head and braced himself for the impact. Instead, he found himself yanked up by his hair, making him yelp out in painful surprise.

The man's malicious face was close to his; his breath reeking of something like fermented fish sauce. “As matters stand, I shall enjoy helping you to find your place alongside your ancestors.” In an unexpected move, he was slammed headfirst against the wooden pole, and his tormentor watched the blood splatter from his nose. Antonius sunk down in a fetal position with a grunt, seeing stars.

The man still loomed above, kicking him two times until he heard a faint, wet-sounding cough. "Oh, but not yet. You are not dying on me yet. If you had the audacity to live this long, you will now grant me my gratification.” A torrent of water emptied itself all over Antonius' shivering form, and he cried out in pain as his lacerated back seared from the vinegar that was mixed with the crude, painful disinfectant.  
  
“For years, I had to hold you and your kind up. I built this empire from nothing, no one else! And nothing and no one is going to stand in my way, least of all you!” He swung the whip again and again. Its sharp, cracking sounds mingled with pain-filled cries until there was no more sound.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *fibula = a clasp or brooch, like a modern safety pin (source: Wikipedia)


	13. Chapter 13

Brictius Titanus Westalis found out Antonius was being held hostage behind the gates of Novum Eboracum five days later. By that time, the enemy and his forces had holed up in the city, and Brictius was furious to find that cutting off his opponent from his resources would not help his cause. “The main obstacle is the wall. Its weakest link is the gate.”  
  
Two pairs of eyes locked behind the commander's pacing back and swooshing cloak as he continued to think aloud. “Time is of the essence. A direct assault is required, not a besieging.” Eventually, Kryptonius dared to clear his throat. “My Centurion...” When Westalis swung around; posture belligerent and face drawn, Cato stood even more at attention. “What if the gate is heavily guarded? An attack could be suicidal.”  
  
Hazel eyes sized him up for a few, long moments, until the Optio was almost squirming despite adopting an assertive stance. “That is why we will attack them at night. Use the shadows in our favor.” Brictius then moved over to where Kryptonius and Quintus stood by the table. He grabbed a sharp, glinting dagger to point out several spots on the rough sketch of a map in front of them.

“Once the preparatory fire set up here is done, the main body of heavy infantry closes the gap and attacks on the double from here.” His officers followed the motions the dagger described. “The gate is like the eye of a needle. Deployment in such limited space calls for flexibility. We go for the triangular formation. The best soldiers shall be acting as the reinforced tip.” He looked up at his Optio.  
  
“Make sure the infantry keeps intervals for maneuver, reforming and recovery. I want them in a solid line when they engage once the gate is down.” Kryptonius nodded. “Contendite vestra sponte*?” Westalis nodded as he rammed the dagger into the desktop. “Yes.” He then focused on his Decanus. “I want two of your cavalry units to guard the flanks.” Octavian's greaves clinked as he put his heels together.

“Yes, Sir.”

When the meeting was done and the two officers dismissed, they walked out of their commander's office in lockstep. As soon as they were out of earshot, Quintus shook his head to himself. “All because of a single servant.” Kryptonius shushed him. “Watch your mouth, Octavian.” At that the archer tsked. “Your words, if I may remind you.” Cato huffed and kept his gaze straight ahead, despite the pointed glimpse of his comrade.

“The Centurion's orders are what matter most, together with a battle well fought and won. It is no secret that Novum Eboracum is a vital position to inhabit, once we have it under our control. Another city controlled by us is going to give any of the surrounding legions a good place to regroup and restock.” Quintus whistled a crooked little melody.

“Well... if you put it like that.”

* * *

It was a cold, starry night that saw Brictius and Cato side by side on horseback, inspecting the idle but deceptive scenery from their spot high upon a crest. The Centurion's breath stood out in visible puffs within the crisp air. “Tell Quintus to get the ballistae ready and await my orders.” A sharp twinge of something tore at his heart upon mentioning the use of his missing lover's invention. Kryptonius bowed in military rigor and rode off.

High up on the crest, Vespertilio's reins tight within a balled fist, Brictius scanned the fenced-in city. With his back to his men, he raised his right arm. “On my signal. Draw the bowstrings...” Hazel eyes narrowed as Westalis listened to the sounds behind him while scanning the target area.  
  
“... Fire!”  
  
Blazing projectiles whirred through the air moments later, landing high upon the city's wall with thunderous impact. The sound echoed back over to where the century reloaded the ballista and its counterpart with flaming arrows. Octavian Janus Quintus was in two places at once; supervising and shouting out instructions. “Alter the angle! To the right! To the right! Aim for the gate!”

Talent after talent flew against the wall, reverberating through the night as they did serious damage to the city's rampart. As soon as the gate erupted in fire, Brictius pressed his heels into Vespertilio's sides and drew in the reins. The Andalusian reared up with a snorting huff before it chased it down the slope. Wind whipped in his ears as Westalis spurred his stallion on, making his own cavalry fall behind in no time.

Vespertilio was strong and fast, and the frozen ground under his hooves thundered with each step he took. Upon getting close, arrows whooshed past, and Brictius took on a zigzagging course. The remaining guards of Novum Eboracum who had not been killed witnessed a single man riding through the premises below like an approaching storm on a black, thunderous horse.

He soon vanished within the dark environment; concealed by the smoke of the raging fires and the shadows of the defensive structure. Horns echoed through the air; a sign to release more men out into the battle on the ground. From where they approached the scenery on horses with steaming breaths, Cato Kryptonius and Octavian Quintus heard the alarm as they reached the demolished city gate.

Up close, there was no sign of their commander.

“Futuo**! Where is he?!”  
Swearing under his breath, Octavian raised his bow and arrow in a fire-ready position and looked around.  
“We're less than twenty men. The infantry will need even more time to get here.”  
  
Cato adjusted his helmet that had slipped too deep over his eyes during the sprint. “It is too quiet so far.” He looked at his friend and comrade. “Go head back to the outer rims of the gate. Instruct the infantry and position the cavalry at the points you deem strategic. We have to make sure none of them get to escape.” Quintus nodded and pressed the heels of his shoes slightly into his horse's sides to make it stop trotting.  
  
“And you?”  
Kryptonius bared his teeth at him as he drew his sword.  
“What I always do – making sure he gets out of trouble.”  
  
Octavian slipped his bow back into its holster across his back.  
“For a moment I thought you wanted to say 'Make sure he does not _get_ _into_ trouble.'”  
They shared a brief, knowing look full of trust earned in hundreds of battles fought side by side.  
  
“... as if.”  
  
Spoken in unison, they shared a final nod before each man hurried onwards, into opposite directions.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Contendite vestra sponte = a post-deployment command meaning "The legionaries assumed an aggressive stance and attacked every opponent they faced" (source: Wikipedia)
> 
> ** Futuo = an expletive (probably clear which one ;))


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a heads up for everyone to read & mind the updated tag(s) as of this chapter. Thank you!

Brictius had to leave Vespertilio behind at some point; his mighty hooves lacking stealth as they clopped too loud on paved roads. He tied the gelding to a pole hidden inside an empty stable and hoped the animal would resent to its usual, feral instincts when being approached by strangers. Westalis then drew his gladius with a soundless move from its scabbard and began making his way through many narrow streets.

At night, Novum Eboracum was a labyrinth of dark alleyways, littered with piss and feces of both animal and human origin. The Centurion drew his woolen scarf higher up to cover mouth and nose. By now, most of the civilian population seemed to have withdrawn into their homes upon the first signs of attack. There were occasional hunched over figures, ducking into the shadows, and footsteps hurrying away.

Brictius made his way deeper into the center, eyes trained on a huge temple-like building that throned in the middle of the city. Approaching footsteps reached his ears and he pressed himself flat against an archway until the steps were close enough for an ambush. His victim turned out to be an elderly man with scraggly hair, no teeth, and a skeletal face. Two frightful bulging eyes were eying the gladius pointed at his throat.

Brictius stepped closer until the tip of his sword sat right upon the man's windpipe. “Where do I find the Annuli Decem?” The Centurion's growl, accentuated by the fabric over his face, caused the slave to shake. Impatient, Westalis reinforced his grip around the man's thin limbs and shook him. “Stanius! Where is he?” A bony arm pointed towards the huge monument with its mighty pillars and imposing sculptures.

Mouth grim, Brictius released him, and the man stumbled to the ground, still paralyzed with fear. Westalis reached into the small satchel of his uniform and threw a few coins at the cowering figure before he hurried onwards. Hunkering in the shadows of many carved chimeras that adorned the building, Brictius inspected the empty, vast courtyard that separated him from the main entrance.

To his feet were large aqueducts, frozen after the water had spilled over the rims of the constructed watercourses. It created a mirror-like surface that glinted within the sparse shadows of torches which lit the way of a lithic staircase. As he stood and studied his surroundings, something made his senses tingle. In an instant, the Centurion's sword came up as he whirled around, only to be met with his Optio's equally raised sword.

Kryptonius managed to wear both a relieved but still disapproving facial expression as both soldiers lowered their weapons. “The gate is down. Octavian is sending the infantry in and keeping the flanks covered.” Westalis nodded and slipped the scarf off his face. “I need to get inside. There are no guards anywhere. This speaks of...” Cato peeked around him and towards the battlements of the building.   
  
“... a trap?”  
Brictius pursed a set of chapped lips.  
“Exactly.”  
  
His eyes darted over the icy surface again and narrowed. “What we need is a distraction.” From where Cato stood close by his side, the Centurion drew back and went to look for a way to climb the columned outer ramparts until there was a hand on his shoulder, pulling him back. “Too late.” Kryptonius then pointed over to where half a dozen armed men spilled out of the building, heading their way.  
  
“It does not get any more distracting than that.”   
  
At the wry statement of his second-in-command, Westalis snarled into his direction. “Remind me to write the consul about a rise in your pay.” Cato assumed an equally battle-ready stance as his commander and cast him a sideways glance. “I can think of many things, Centurion, but what exactly for if I may ask?” Brictius returned his gaze, albeit briefly. Something mischievous glinted in his eyes.  
  
“I shall tell you once we are done.” The tall Optio tutted and cracked his knuckles that had gotten cold and stiff in the winter air. “Keeping up the suspense?” Westalis probed his first steps on the slippery ground and gave a lopsided smirk. “Nothing like a healthy dose of motivation.” A few wordless signals between them, and they drifted apart in a pincer-movement, prompting their opponents to split up as well.

The fight soon equaled out after the two young officers managed to strike down four of their attackers with well-placed thrusts of their blades. At some point, the battle had drawn them together again and into the courtyard's middle, where they found themselves back to back, swords raised. Brictius' helmet was smeared with enemy blood running down the visor, and he shook it off before it could dribble onto his face.

“Think you can handle another two?”  
From where he only heard Kryptonius' heavy breaths behind him, the Optio huffed out a laugh.  
“I could have handled all six if you asked me to.”

With a smooth twist of his heel, Westalis then wielded his sword and was just about to surge ahead when his opponent retreated instead of striking again. Perplex he turned around to see the same happening with Kryptonius' adversary, and both men looked at each other. Realization set in seconds later, revealing the fact that they were standing right in the middle of the courtyard nothing short of exposed.  
  
Like dark gargoyles, silhouettes suddenly appeared above their heads, all around on the battlement. That was when Cato Josephus Kryptonius reacted in the blink of an eye. The force with which he slammed into his commander caused Brictius to stumble and fall backward, slithering away on the icy ground, even if his fingers kept on clenching around the hilt of his sword.

He had no choice but watch as a myriad of arrows rained upon his second-in-command, piercing the ground where he himself had stood mere heartbeats before. “NO!” Getting back on his feet, Westalis grabbed a nearby shield from one of their fallen attackers. He held it above his head to ward off the still ongoing shower of arrows that rammed into the metal with dull thuds. “KRYPTONIUS!”

By now, Cato had staggered down to one knee, blade rammed into the icy ground to support his weight. Countless, long-shafted arrows were poking through the Optio's body - his arms, shoulders, and even through his breast plated armor, front and back. In an instant, Brictius was by his side, witnessing in horror how the ice around him started to become drenched in deep red hues.

“Go...”  
  
It was more of a shaky hiss. Cato's grip on the hilt of his sword then went slack. Before he could hit the ground, Westalis dropped his own gladius, knelt by his side and supported his torso. “Go... save yourself.” Brictius' stoic facade gave way to utter worry and devastation when Kryptonius closed his eyes. “NO! I am not leaving you behind!” Cato's breaths started to come in short puffs. “Where I go... you cannot... shall not... follow me.”

A wet, gurgling noise erupted from the back of his throat. “As much as I want... t'stay... by... your side.” One shaking hand reached out to blindly grope for Brictius' wrist. The young commander felt an unsettling coldness on his skin. “It breaks my heart to see you wounded!” With great effort, two blue eyes opened and blinked until they were able to focus. “My heart breaks... k-knowing... I lost... the battle for... Centurion's heart.”  
  
Blood bubbled up from behind Cato's lips that were growing pale. Brictius refastened his hold, unmindful of the warm blood gushing over his arms. “Do not speak my friend, the Medicus will be here soon.” His other arm shook as the occasional arrow still found its mark within the dented shield above their heads. A shaky smile through crimson-stained, chattering teeth, then Cato gazed up into the star-lit skies.  
  
“Too... too late. May the Gods favor you, B-Brictius... always. Only y-y...ou.”  
He went slack within his friend's grip, leaving Westalis to dart unbelieving eyes over his still features.  
“C... Cato...?”  
  
No flicker of lashes, no movement, nothing. Pinching his lips, Brictius ran a palm over the other man's even face, closing his eyes for the very last time. When he rose, gladius back in one hand and the shield peppered with arrows in the other, his chest and shoulders were heaving with undisguised rage. Frenzied eyes then fastened on the main gates where a bunch of attackers stood and blocked his way.

He approached them with a wild, animalistic scream of fury.

 


	15. Chapter 15

Blood, flesh, and even more blood. Those were the only things Brictius' mind registered as he made his way into the palace-like building, uncaring whom his blade encountered on the way. His fingers were slipping on a hilt slick with crimson, and he brushed them against his thigh whenever he was not brandishing the sword around to fight his way through a mixture of slaves, guards, and warriors of the Annuli Decem alike.

Eventually, he ended up in a large, circular hall with a huge, round window made from thick, stained glass of various colors. It was not very transparent, but with flickering torches put up left and right, drenching the surroundings into an eerie atmosphere. Sitting high up the stairs on some kind of throne, Abdias Leonius Stanius slowly got to his feet as Westalis appeared in the doorway, chest heaving with exertion.

“So much trouble, Centurion. Should I even bother asking why you are here?” Brictius did a quick, sweeping look around for any guards he had not disposed of. Once he came up empty he exhaled and focused back on his nemesis, his eyes narrowing with hatred. “Free Antonius Eduardus Structus. Now.” The older man clasped both hands behind his back and cast him a rather pitiful, once-over look.  
  
“I really did not think you would be stupid enough to act out on your miserable sense of dignitas*.” Brictius snarled. “I am part of the Legio XII Fulminata**. We are riding under the emblem of the thunderbolt. I do not fear you, or any aggressor who thinks they are above the Roman law. You have taken lives that were not yours to take, so I came to do what should have been done way earlier.”

Stanius expression changed into someone who inspected a bug worth being squished under a heel. “You are nothing but a foolish little orphan who decided to play soldier after his parents had died.” Not rising to the bait, Westalis bared the hilt of his sword from underneath his cloak. “You will free Structus. Now.” The other man all but laughed in his face. “A wolf is not afraid of a barking dog, you brat.”  
  
Brictius' nostrils flared, but he reined himself in and tore off his sagum to toss it aside one-handed. “Rest assured I am not such as I was.” With a fast move of the wrist, his drawn sword came up in Stanius' face. “And I know not how to yield.” Disgust sparked up behind the other man's eyes. It gave him enough temerity to step back and also draw his sword. Brictius moved up on him, ready to engage with his gladius in position.

They began to circle each other until Stanius cocked his head but kept his blade at a level with the floor. “I do not think that is true, Centurion.” The last word was spat out with hate. “You know better how to yield than anyone else. After your parents had been stabbed to death right before your eyes by that hired criminal, you have had the right mind to hide away like a coward for years - before I could find you.”

They lapsed into a silence that was only filled by Brictius' heavy breathing. Stanius allowed the words to sink in, scanning his opponent's frazzled state of mind with malicious glee while repositioning his feet into a more solid stance. "Yes, conducting your parents' death was one of the few things that brought me the greatest joy, Brictius. How ironic fate is to rejoin us for me to finish my task and annihilate the last of your kind.”  
  
The moment Westalis' facial features derailed, despite his imperturbable ways, made Stanius sneer.

“... and this time, I will not rest until the whole city of Gothorium lays in ashes.”  
  
Their metal blades clashed loudly in the vast atrium hall as Brictius surged at him with a feral scream and undiluted hatred. His anger spurred him on and granted him a good advantage against the burly man. Stanius, however, was strong and skilled and went to block all of his wild attacks one by one. Brictius hissed out in pain when Stanius' blade grazed his left upper arm and drew a deep laceration that instantly leaked blood.

The bigger man then moved in to launch another strike. Quick to react, Westalis kept his blade and elbows close to his body, not giving into the impulse of touching the profusely bleeding cut. When the steel of Stanius' blade crashed upon him, Brictius avoided to stretch out. Instead he parried with his legs wide and his feet fastened on the ground. His teeth were grating at the brunt of pressure Stanius bestowed upon him.  
  
Several violent and fast-paced sparring turns later, their blades ended up crossed with each other, right underneath their faces, creating a grating sound. Sweat ran down Brictius' forehead but he forced his tired, shaking wrists to keep on holding up. “Your parents' legacy is nil, no matter what you do. Just like Structus' fate!” Despite his display of prowess, Stanius was becoming winded, too, as his words came in puffed out gasps.  
  
“You know, it is too bad that the two of you did not tear each other apart upon discovering your heritage. That would have been just as fulfilling for me as killing both of you individually.” Something in Brictius' fast beating heart started to wash over his bone-numbing exhaustion. “You will not kill me. Not today, not ever.” A rush of adrenaline and fierce willpower made him flicker his wrists around.

He levered out the melee situation by side sliding his opponent's attack and dodged away. When Stanius charged forward like a raging bull, to try and return another heavy blow, Brictius saw the inherent opening he created. His final, winning strike had his gladius thrusting into the side of his opponent, between his ribcage, managing to pierce the armor enough for Stanius to stagger down to one knee, favoring the wound.

A second, fast jab from Westalis and the hand holding the sword was cut off from the elder man's body. He crumpled to the ground with a scream, clutching a red, bubbling stump to his body. As the young Centurion stepped over him and put one foot right upon his ribcage, his hazel eyes held a venomous, but yet calm glint. His gladius hovered over Stanius' heart for a moment, then slid up higher.  
  
“I will make you remember my parents' legacy.”  
The tip of his blade dipped into the soft skin on Stanius' bobbing throat, producing a faint red line.  
“Because I _am_ their legacy.”

A final, slow and violently twisting stab right into Stanius' windpipe, then the gurgling man was dead.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *dignitas = [...] regarded as the sum of the personal clout and influence that a male citizen acquired throughout his life [...] (source: Wikipedia https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dignitas_(Roman_concept))
> 
> ** Legio XII Fulminata = A legion of the Imperial Roman army originally levied by Julius Caesar in 58 BC. Also called the Thunderbolt Twelfth Legion (source: Wikipedia https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Legio_XII_Fulminata)


	16. Chapter 16

Brictius broke down the last, wooden door with a kick. He stood for a moment, covered in blood which was splattered and smeared all over his armor, and scanned the wreckage. As his eyes adjusted to the near pitch-black darkness, he made out a body in the back, curled up in a fetal position. It was completely naked, displaying the brutal use of whiplash injuries and burn marks.

Cowering down in the corner, Brictius removed his own helmet first before he dared to touch those sticky, blooded strands of hair, feeling his throat constrict. “No, please...” At the sound of his voice, Antonius' eyes fluttered open. Disoriented at first, he blinked around, until his scarred face attempted a weak smile. “How sweet a dream. The Gods are favoring me on my last hour to grace me with the image of my beloved.”

The Centurion fought against tears of ire and helplessness and reached out to yank and cut off the rusty chains from his raw and bloodied wrists and ankles. “No, it is me. And I am going to get you out of here now.” Feverish delight splayed out all over Structus' mangled, bearded features. “You have come for me.” It was a croaked whisper, sounding close to tears. “My bold, faithful savior.”

Chest still heaving from the permanent strain and anxiety of the past few hours, Brictius gave a gentle peck to the shorter man's burning forehead. “Please forgive the wait. I wish I... could have held you in my arms sooner.” He took off his cloak and wrapped it around the shivering, nude body as gentle as possible. Antonius grimaced with pain as he was then lifted up. “All... that matters is... you are... here.”

The Centurion squared his shoulders, noticing how much of a lightweight Antonius had become once more, and strode out of the cell, headed for the exit. “I would not have left you behind for anything in the world.” Weak from days of torture and starvation, Structus squinted at the blood-stained walls on their way out. “And you left a mess of carnage in your wake.” At that, Brictius' eyes hardened with renewed rage.

“And yet it's not enough. It will never be enough to quench my thirst for revenge. If I had to find out you, too, had been... the Gods would not...” His voice faltered. Antonius then mumbled against his skin, almost soundless and beyond exhaustion. “I'm still here, beloved. Do not succumb to darkness.” Westalis' eyes were like granite but his grip was gentle as anything as he carried the shorter man out of the massacred fortress. 

Brictius made sure to shield his lover's sensitive eyes from the faint light of dawn under his cloak. By now, the courtyard was swarmed with trusted legionaries of his own century. The Centurion stared at the space where he had left Cato behind and felt the sharp pain of realization kick back in. He reassured himself Kryptonius' body had been taken in by his men and not fallen victim to Stanius' remaining troops.

Westalis then barked out several more orders to clear the area and set up a few guards before he strode onwards, never looking back, headed over to where his trusted steed was waiting for his return. The Centurion then cradled Antonius' still form close to his chest as he steered Vespertilio through the smoldering ashes of Novum Eboracum; his jaw set tight and his eyes firmly locked onto the horizon.

* * *

 _“Antonius! Antonius!”_  
  
_The sweet voice of his mother made him turn around. From where he had been gardening in the peristylium*, relishing the sweet and warm rays of the sun, he was quick to brush off his hands and knees and hurried inside, running through the vast domus of his parents right into her waiting arms. After she had released him, she brushed some of the always unruly locks from his forehead._

_“Your father has returned from his travels. Go and greet him in the triclinium**.”_

_Horatius Antonius Structus stood in front of an unlit fireplace, next to a bald man who was about his age. “They need to be taken care of, Horatius. Trust my words. Your branches cannot flourish with the power of the Westalis' gens. Only if they fade into obscurity they will be no longer represented in the Senate.” His father's profile spoke of hesitation.  
_

_“Does it have to be in bloodshed, Abdias? We have settled feuds with most gentes. Surely Thomas Aurelius Westalis is inclined to settle matters in a peaceful way as well...” The bald man put a hand on his father's shoulder and leaned in, like a snake wrapping itself around a tree. “Trust me to take care of this, my dearest friend. I will make sure it is your name that will be written out all over Rome in the nearby future.”_

_After a while, Structus senior gave a single nod, all the while staring into the cold ashes._  
_At the sight of the adolescent standing in the doorway, both looked up._  
_“It is impolite to hearken, my boy.”_

_The disdain in his father's eyes faded out as the scene became foggy and slipped away._

_A flash of white light, a different time, and then Antonius was standing in the dark corner of the triclinium** , watching the blood run from the chairs onto the marble tiles, next to two lifeless bodies. Abdias Leonius Stanius standing in their middle with a bloodied dagger in his hand, eyes frenzied. "The boy...! Where is the boy? GET HIM! He must not escape!”_

_He ran. The voices behind him started to gain ground. The city became small as he weaved through the crowd, merchants blocking his way. He had never been that far out of his hometown. His sandals slipped on the sandy ground, so he tore them off mid-stride. It took him too long. A hand around his arm, brutal in its hold._

_It pushed him over the rim of the wall, until the devilish look on Abdias Leonius Stanius' face disappeared from his memory when his head cracked on something solid, and his body got washed away in the river._

* * *

When he woke with a barely suppressed wail, Antonius did not know where he was, resulting in panic. His whole body ached even without moving, and he resented to gasping for air. Faint rustling to the left errupted, then a familiar countenance loomed up above, holding a wet rag in his hand. “Finally you are awake. Your condition had me deeply concerned for your life.” Brictius looked troubled as he dabbed at his lover's forehead. 

When the man on the cot did not return his strained smile, the Centurion frowned. “What is it? Do you feel worse?” Antonius blinked watery eyes up at the tent's ceiling. “I... I remember now.” _(our paths should have never crossed)_ “I remember who I am.” _(the son of Horatius Antonius Structus, the official murderer of your parents)_ “I remember who you are.” _(the orphan heir who deserted to become a soldier to fight injustice)_

With a slow blink, he cast desperate eyes over to the taken aback countenance of Westalis.

“... how can you say you love me?”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * peristylium = colonnaded garden  
> ** triclinium = formal dining room


	17. Chapter 17

In a swift move, Brictius got to his feet and turned away from the bedside, his armor rustling. “Because I...” When nothing followed, Structus propped himself up, holding a hand to his hurting ribcage. “Because love is of greater strength than vengeance? Or what? Brictius?” Dark, hard shadows swirled within his eyes as the Centurion stared into the fire; exposing a suffering that could never heal completely.

“They still have to pay for what they've done. As soon as you feel better, I will go back to burn the village, kill the cattle and take all the grain. I want justice for what has happened!” With a small groan he tried to suppress, Antonius moved into a seated position and shook his head.

“This is not you speaking, but a bout of brief madness that stems from wrath, solely to cloud your mind. There is no need to make a whole city suffer for what happened. Justice is not revenge. Search your feelings, you know I am right.” Brictius jabbed a finger at him, anger winning over indecision and concern.

“Do _not_ play my guilty conscience! Not when you do not know what I have lost a few nights ago! Not when you have no idea what happened in Novum Eboracum! Not when half of the empire wanted me to kill you for what your gens has done to mine! Not when I chose to let you live despite anything else!”

Wordless, Structus got up on wobbly feet. He grabbed a pugio from the nearby table and padded over to stand in front of the Centurion, baring his throat. “Then do it. I am prepared to die by the hands that saved, fed, and caressed me. If it means you get to rest from your guilt and those inhuman thoughts for all times.” He held up the dagger in Brictius' furious face, only to have it slapped from his hand moments later.

It clattered to the ground and slithered away. “You are a fool, Antonius, do you hear me?! A goddamn fool!” Westalis then lunged for him, but held back the very last second as to not harm his weakened body, and held the shorter man close instead; chin resting on the crown of his hair. Feeling him tremble, Brictius picked him up and carried him back into the cot. Before he could draw away, Antonius' fingers clawed into his tunic.  
  
“If you still love this fool, you stay by his side and keep him warm during the cold night.”

* * *

After hours of pain and restlessness, Brictius' pale and drawn face greeted him the next time he opened his eyes. Antonius felt less disoriented but still weak, and Brictius touched his forehead. “Have you rested well?” The dark-haired man tilted his head and focused on the raw wound on Westalis' shoulder. “Last night, the crying of the Centurion kept me awake. I am... sorry to hear about your loss.”  
  
Said man pinched his lips shut and turned around to get up. Structus let him escape, watching his back. “Mourn for him, Brictius. He was always loyal to you.” When he looked over his shoulder, those hazel-green eyes inhabited something out of Antonius' perception. “To grieve is to fail to perceive and accept the nature of things.” His voice was laced with pain, despite his tries to make it sound stalwart and commandeering.

“As soon as you are able to travel, we shall return to the city of Rome. There is no reason for me to keep on fighting without my second-in-command.” Antonius gave a careful nod which escaped Brictius' attention as his gaze was fixated upon two familiar bloodied gladii upon the table, their blades forming a cross. “I want everyone to honor his soul and spirit before he gets to be cremated.”

* * *

Westalis refused the standard outfit for commanders when they returned to Rome after a victorious besieging. Instead of donning a purple robe and a laurel crown, he rode into the city in his usual armor; the only difference being the thick sagum that wafted around his solid form. From where it used to have its usual, dark red color, Brictius' cloak now sported an unfamiliar deep, black dye.

The Centurion himself had seen to soak the fabric in a tannic acid solution before he went and immersed it in a second solution of iron salt. The result was an eerie aura of intimidating gloom. Nobody dared to speak to him during the first days of their march, not even Antonius. He and Alfredus once again had taken up their places in a chariot, guarded in the middle of the baggage train that time instead of at its tail.

Next to them, a solid wooden sarcophagus was pulled along through the snow by four mighty horses. It was a non-standard Roman procedure to bring the dead back without cremating them first, but Westalis had been adamant, almost manic about burning his Optio's body in Rome, to grant him the most honorable funeral procession there was for a military man.

The Medicus, deeply concerned for his protege's mental state of health, eventually voiced his thoughts to the man next to him. Structus nodded along with a miserable expression. “Even I do not know how to get through to him. He has shut out everyone in this world.” Alfredus sighed. “If anyone can, it is you. Which is a relief, considering my adventures with him are about to come to an end.”

Shocked by the finality in the elder man's voice, Antonius gripped his arm. “Why? What terrible sickness has befallen you? Is there anything to do? Does the Centurion know?” The physician patted his hand. “Oh, no - rest assured I am still in relatively good health. But with fate bringing us back to Rome, I feel like it is time for me to seek permanent retirement, now that my... son has a faithful companion by his side.”

At that Antonius fell silent and watched the face of the elder man for any signs of being fooled. When nothing but sincerity shone back at him, he scratched a spot at the back of his head. “You know this is going to be yet another hard stroke of fate for him.” Petronius' weathered hands tightened around the rim of the chariot.

“This I fear the most. And it is why I am glad you are there for him to make him see and understand. I am not about to burden him with my aging bones and slow responses.” Antonius shook his head with a vehemence. “You are not a burden, dearest Medicus.” His earnest protest elicited a fatherly smile.

“Oh, but I will be, young Structus, given that the Gods grant me many more years in this world. My body is going to become a liability that is not beneficial to the battlefield.” The tender wounds on his back hurt, so Antonius stopped fidgeting and also braced himself on the carriage. “I do understand, but...” One of the weathered hands found its way upon the back of his hand. “I will always be there for him – and for you, Antonius.”

The dark-haired man sniffled, once, then glimpsed over at the black coat that was riding in solitude at the head of the tross.  
“When do you want to break it to him?”  
Alfredus' eyes also came to rest upon the broad-shouldered, black cape.  
  
“Once we have arrived. Before the funeral.”

 


	18. Chapter 18

“NO!!”  
  
An innocent amphora got swept off a table in a sudden bout of anger and smashed to pieces on the floor. “My Centurion...” Alfredus looked up as the man in his black coat whirled around after pacing the tent for the longest time. “NO, I will NOT allow it!” Westalis jabbed a finger into his direction with each word, youthful face twisted with sorrow and anger in equal shares. “How _dare_ you do this to me now, after all that happened!”

The Medicus heaved a deep sigh and drew his white linen cloak tighter around his frail frame. “I have grown old, Brictius, as much as it pains me to admit and say this out loud.” He sunk down into a nearby chair with a groan and rubbed the left side of his chest while holding onto the edge of the table. From where he witnessed Petronius' unwilling display of fragility out of the corner of his eye, Westalis blinked several times.

Eventually, he dropped his chin to his chest with a small sigh and walked over to where his mentor and confidant of many decades sat, breathing with difficulty. For a moment, Westalis simply regarded him, his fists clenching and unclenching. “My... my words were ill-spoken.” At the mumbled admission, Alfredus forced a steadfast expression on his face and inclined his head. “Think nothing of it.”

It was then that Brictius dropped down onto one knee before him and hung his head low.  
“How am I supposed to do this without you? Without Cato?”  
After a while, a hand moved upon the crown of his thick, brown hair.

It did not move to caress and just rested there instead; warm and assuasive at the same time. “You were raised by the wolf and the stallion, Brictius Titanus. Cunning, fast, courageous. You are the strongest you could have become. And you are making me proud ever since the day you were born.” In a flash, Westalis raised his head, thus brushing the hand off his hair to reveal two brimful, yet intense eyes.  
  
“THEN WHY ARE YOU DESERTING ME?”  
  
His voice was hoarse and laced with desperation and ire. Petronius forced himself to hold his gaze. “Do not think you are dependent on me to show you the way. You are already on the right path.” Westalis got off the ground in a swift move, swirling up dust with the hem of his cloak. “The path that I have walked all my life is far from being right! And I get punished for it every damn day!”  
  
With an angry sounding sob, the young commander tore himself away from his presence and left the tent.  
He did not hear the final words Alfredus Thaddeus Petronius whispered out into the dusk of the day.  
“I will never desert you, my child. My sweet child raised in the wake of the storm. One day you will understand.”

* * *

After storming off the campus his men and he had occupied after their arrival, Brictius headed out towards the pastures that surrounded the campsite. He took off his cloak without stopping his stride, balling the black fabric tight within a fist as his legs turned the walk into a sprint, getting a life of their own.

He was out of breath by the time he reached the riverside of the Tiber, surrounded by a patch of trees too few to call them a forest, but enough to shield him from curious eyes. When the muscles in his legs began to cramp up, Brictius dropped down into the snow-covered ground, heaving big gulps of air, and sobbed. The fist with his cloak then dove into the snow over and over, leaving deep marks within.

Together with it, he vocalized his anger about the injustice of the Gods and the world by screaming the foulest profanities along with each punch. When his adrenaline bled out after a while, it left him to breathless huffing. “Beloved...?” At the timid voice from behind, Westalis whirled around, still on his knees, furious at being caught. “Why are you following me?! Leave me alone!”

Ashamed, Structus shrunk back behind a barren tree and looked away as the other man scrambled to his feet. “I... have not. In fact, I have been here since you... never mind.” With an angry wipe over his eyes, Brictius stood up, turned his back on him, and proceeded to refasten his coat around his shoulders. Antonius waited until the faint sniffling died down and the Centurion stood tall with his arms akimbo.

Westalis continued to avoid facing him and cleared his throat twice. “The Medicus, he...” Renewed anger and hopelessness made him choke up once again. “I have heard. It was not an easy decision for him.” Structus then walked closer until he was able to look at his lover's profile. His cheeks were splotched red, and the dried up tears had left small, icy rivulets on his skin.

Embarrassed at his condition, Brictius steeled his features and flung the big black coat around himself until it covered his entire torso. Another snow shower set in, leaving a frosty mixture of ice and rain on his shoulders, and Westalis' jaw tightened. “It does not matter. Nothing does. For the moment, the funeral needs to be held. As soon as the dead have been done justice, the living can demand my presence again.”

Antonius suppressed a shaky sigh and dared to step in front of him to look right in his eyes. “I have heard some of your men talk. They say they are planning on asking me questions, Brictius. The Senate. I cannot help but worry.” He started to rub his upper arms with his palms in turns. Still gruff, Westalis then spread his cloaked arms with a swift motion, engulfing the shorter man within his comforting darkness.

“If they want to get close to you, they will have to get past me first.” Saying nothing, Antonius pressed up against his chest and wrapped his arms tight around his taller, solid frame. For a while, they simply stood within the garden-park, motionless, and without speaking any further words. Brictius Titanus Westalis kept on watching the snow turn to sleet as it fell down all around them.

* * *

Later, the Centurion and his men stood in full, gleaming regalia and watched as the fires were set beneath the huge funeral pyre of Cato Josephus Kryptonius' mortal remains. As soon as the flames were blazing up into the dark, cloudy skies, the Centurion gave a sign to which all legionaries set into motion.

They rode and marched around his funeral pyre three times; silent and in a slow, venerate manner as the flames licked and flickered up around the body of their fallen comrade, almost as if they were reaching for the stars. The blare of trumpets echoed over the vast field, along with the crackle of the fire.

After the final round, the first drops of rain began to fall, drenching the snow into sludgy puddles. It was then that the procession started to break up. Brictius Westalis remained behind, insistent to guard the dying pyre throughout the rest of the night. Even with his armor and tunic soaked to the bone, he would not tear away from the smoldering remains.

When a dripping wet Vespertilio appeared alone in front of the Medicus' residence, neighing in lamenting timbre, Alfredus wasted no more time.

He and Antonius Structus marched up the hill in the still ongoing drizzle where they found Westalis in an almost catatonic state on all fours in front of the fizzled out pyre. Alarmed at his non-responsive state, they hoisted him and his heavy armor up with great difficulty. While Petronius took off his helmet and checked him for any signs of life, Antonius ran a palm over cold and clammy cheeks, patting them in a steady rhythm.

“Please, beloved, look at me. Please speak to me.”  
After a while, damp lashes started to flutter at the light touch and voice.  
“I have a heartbeat!”  
  
Alfredus' voice exuded relief. Shortly after, Brictius began to cough and snort out water. From where he was sagging within the two men's grip, his feet soon found the ground on their own. He still remained taciturn and avoided eye contact. Petronius glimpsed through the sheen of rain over at Structus. “We will bring him into my quarters. Quick!”

Steadying the tall, swaying commander in their middle, the way down the dark and slippery hill was arduous.

 


	19. Chapter 19

Antonius sat in the dark. His palms rested flat against each other as he leaned forward on a chair, elbows on his thighs, and stared at the nearly burnt down candle in front of him. The melted tallow was smearing upon the little metal bowl it was placed upon, and the crooked wick was about to drown within its puddle. The soft creak of a door made him look over his shoulder before he got to his feet.

Alfredus Thaddeus Petronius pulled the door shut and stepped closer into the small circle of light. “Is he going to be well?” The Medicus looked haggard and of age as he went to search for a new candle. “I have given him a hot brew of fenugreek, sage and fennel to help ward off any illness. What he needs right now is warmth. Lots of it.”

When Antonius entered the small chamber, a gust of warm air engulfed him. It came from a small fireplace in the corner. Brictius lay with his back towards the door underneath a large, woolen blanket that emitted a distinctive smell of sheep. Antonius slid upon the edge of the bed and placed a tender hand on his shoulder. “I will rest by your side for the night if you do not mind.”

Nothing followed, so he stripped down to his loincloth and slipped underneath the heavy sheepskin, behind an equally bare Westalis. The latter did not move, even when an arm wormed around his torso and rested upon his chest, right over his heart. His body was still too cold to the touch, and Structus snuggled closer.  
  
“I should have died that night.”  
His voice was muffled and hoarse. Antonius kept quiet and strained to listen.  
“Cato's death is my fault.”

Structus' sturdy, warm hand then began to run soothing circles on bare and overly scarred skin. “It is not.” Antonius whispered against his nape, only to feel Brictius shake his head into the pillow. “I made a mistake and should have paid for it.” The hand on his chest stopped moving for a moment. “Would he want you to seek death as a punishment? I cannot believe that is what he had in mind.”

Silence fell upon the chamber, until Westalis turned to lay flat on his back. When he looked at the man by his side with eyes too vulnerable and grievous, it prompted Antonius to lean in. He pressed his closed mouth against a pinched and cold pair of lips, which the Centurion had gnawed and bitten raw.

“Do not frighten me again like that.” He put his head close to Brictius' collarbone, his deep voice down to a pleading whisper. His fist then clenched upon his lover's chest. “Not when there is so much to live for.” Nothing but a swallow and move of an Adam's apple followed as Westalis continued to stare at the ceiling. “I wish I could believe you.” The dark-haired man raised his head until he was in his line of view.  
  
“I will not relent until you do, beloved.”

* * *

Antonius woke from a dull, thumping pain erupting all over his back. He cracked an eye open and found himself pressed into the mattress by the solid body of his asleep lover. Somewhere during the night, Brictius had turned around and snuggled up to him. By now he was pinning him down with most of his weight, still fast asleep.

Willing to let him rest, Antonius tried to at least shift a little to ease the burn from his injuries, but it brought out a faint whimper. In an instant, two hazel eyes snapped open and squinted at the strange surroundings. “Rest easy, beloved.” Despite Structus' soothing words, Westalis rolled off and onto his side. There was anger in his eyes. “I've been hurting you and you did not say a thing.” Antonius batted his lashes and averted his glare.  
  
“I feel guilty for hurting when I know how incomparable it is to your agony."*  
Even more irate, Brictius flung the blanket aside and swept his legs over the rim of the bed.  
“This is not a contest of suffering.”  
  
He stood up with a swift move, causing the bones and sinews in his body to snap at the sudden change. The other man shifted up until the sheepskin pooled in his lap. “I was not ready for my fate.” Dark brows furrowed, before two equally dark eyes watched Brictius slip into the dry clothes Alfredus had laid out the night before. “And a huge part of me wishes to go back to that blissful ignorance of the past few months.”

Westalis stopped cinching the belt tighter around his waist and regarded him. “So you wish we should have never met?” His voice held the barest tinge of disbelief and hurt. A small smile appeared on Antonius' lips. “It would have spared you many a tragedy if we had not.”

Before he put the rest of his armor on, turning into the Centurion with all of the rigid morals taught by the military life, Brictius walked around the bedside and slid onto the mattress. One of his arms reached out and clasped Antonius' chin, gently forcing it up so their eyes met. “None of what has happened was your fault.” His hand soon cupped Structus' cheek, and the latter nuzzled into his palm with eyes closed.

“You of all people understand the feeling of guilt for something out of one's realm, do you not, Brictius?” Baffled, Westalis stopped running a coarse thumb over his bearded cheek. Antonius blinked and regarded him in sad triumph. “I will stop speaking and reminiscing of the past and what cannot be undone if you do as well.” His sturdy fingers ran along the soft sheepskin until they brushed into the curled fist of his lover.  
  
Brictius cleared his throat as silently as he could.

“I will go and speak to the consul today.”

* * *

Consuls Antonius Natalis Gariancus and Julius Vicrius Goredius were the chief magistrates of the state, distributing the executive power of the state into two capable hands. Much to his chagrin, Brictius came to learn how consul Goredius, whom he was loyal to ever since his childhood, was out of town for some days.

Consul Gariancus, a haggard man with dark, thinning hair and a pair of deep-set eyes made it clear that he was neither pleased with Brictius' way of handling the funeral, nor his current dress code. “You shall have seven days to appoint a new Optio. Oh, and change that ghastly color. This does not follow any standardized Roman uniform code.” With his nose scrunched up, the elder man pointed to his cloak.

Brictius' jaw worked, then he swallowed. “Seven days, Sir? I am still not...” A belittling shake of the head. “Your next mission awaits, Centurion. I respect the loyalty and grief you currently experience, but this is nothing that can interfere with the Roman military schedule. Glory and honor are what made this empire strong.” Trained in rigorous discipline, Westalis still allowed himself to inhale and open his mouth.

“I need more time, Consul. My men are tired from the march and the cold weather conditions. They are demoralized by the death of Kryptonius. I cannot guarantee any victorious outcome if I were to send them into battle again like that.” Gariancus fixated him with a look bordering on scorn.

“It would be unwise disobeying direct orders, especially now that I believe you may be due for a promotion. After all, you have defeated a large part of the Annuli Decem and its supposed leader.” Dully staring ahead, Brictius nodded with bowed thanks. “Of course, you can move the ranks up even faster and further by bringing that Structus' heir to court, and have him trialed for his crimes done to the Westalis' clan.”

At that, the young commander's head shot up, brows deeply furrowed. “Pardon me, Sir?” “You have heard me well, Centurion. A trial. The son of Structus may have been gone for a long time, but the crimes his family has committed are still not forsaken. Fate has served you well in leading him your way; now you can finally do what needs to be done.” Brictius' teeth gnawed at his bottom lip.

“Justice can sometimes even go a non-political way.”

“Meaning you do not wish to have him put on trial?”

“Not for something he himself was not responsible for, no.”  
  
The consul proceeded to walk around the taller soldier who instantly came to stand at attention. Walking around him, always an eye out for his profile and the way Westalis fixated a spot at a wall on the other end of the room, consul Gariancus cocked his head when he came to a standstill in front of the other man again.  
  
“I may have to make myself more clear. Structus gets a trial, you get a new Optio and a new mission. All within the next seven days. It is either your career or nothing, Centurion Westalis. I trust you to choose wisely.” A blink out of steadfast, hazel eyes as the soldier in Brictius saluted him with a fist on his chest.

“Yes, Sir.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * original quote source: http://trash-by-vouge.tumblr.com/post/151420285100/i-never-meant-to-hurt-you


	20. Chapter 20

“I have come to bid you goodbye.”

Alfredus watched the tall man linger in the doorway of the comfortable villa urbana; a country seat that could easily be reached from Rome within a day. Brictius had bought the estate for him with money he had earned as a Centurion over the past decade; adding some of his family's fortune to purchase a proper house. “Do come in, for a little while at least. Come and look at the beautiful gift you have made me.”

Westalis, dressed in a civilian ensemble of tunic and toga, did as he was told. He hooked his thumbs into the belt around his waist and glanced around. “I hoped you would come to like it.” Alfredus nodded. “It is more than I dared to ever own. I feel deeply in your debt.” Brictius shook his head, mouth a grim line. “I want you to have it. All I ask of you is that you pay regular visit to Kryptonius' grave for me.”

Petronius clasped his hands behind his back. “Your patrols will lead you to Rome from time to time, I do assume.” Westalis started to walk towards the square garden area which still lay bare in the cold weather. “Not necessarily. I... do not plan on returning anytime soon.” Brictius' eyes stopped skimming across the tasteful, sparse furniture and found his longtime confidant. “I need to go home.”  
  
At that the Medicus' countenance became warm and soft. “That is the only reason I shall accept the task you just bestowed on me.” He reached out for a firm wrist and was allowed to grip it. “Find your heritage and revive it. Show him what it means to you as well.” From where Brictius was watching the fingers around his wrist, his eyes traveled up to Petronius' face. “Him?” A benign smile.  
  
“You will not travel alone. I am no simpleton, my dear boy, and of course I did not raise one, either.”  
That brought the first, almost real smile to the young commander's face.  
“Farewell, Alfredus.”  
  
He twisted his hand until he was able to grip and hold the elder man's lower arm in return.  
“Godspeed, Brictius.”  
Neither man saw the tears in the other's eyes as Brictius Titanus Westalis turned around and walked away.

* * *

Rome's war cemetery lay alongside and within the Aurelian Walls. In its middle, a monument had been built for the fallen second-in-command of Westalis' century. The huge military tombstone showed Kryptonius high up on his horse, sword drawn, in full attack. The epitaph on marble read  
  
_In memoriam of Cato Josephus Kryptonius, son of Ionathan Josephus Kryptonius and Martha Kryptonius of Metropolis,_ _Optio Centurionis*_ _in_ _Legio XII Fulminata. Aged 28 years,_ _served 10 years. Brictius Titanus Westalis, his brother in spirit, put this up to forever remember his name and person._ _~May his valiant soul soar high above the clouds and mingle with the Gods~_

After the final, official procedure, Westalis motioned for his Decanus to follow him into a secluded room inside the basilica of the cemetery. As Quintus stood, nervously shifting from one foot to the other and glimpsing in turns between his commander and the men waiting outside, Brictius cleared his throat. “Octavian Janus Quintus.” The man in question stopped fidgeting and snapped at attention.  
  
“Yes, Centurion?”  
  
“I have spoken with the consul to get his consent.”  
Quintus squinted up at his taller commander.  
“Consent for what, Sir?”  
  
In slow, circumspect motions, Brictius then took the helmet with its horse-hair crest off his head. “To appoint you to be my rightful successor. From this day onward, you shall lead the century of the Legio XII Fulminata.” Quintus' eyes became wide with shock. He stared from the helmet to Westalis and back. “But... but... Centurion! No, I mean, I could never...” The other man shook his head once, with a sad, grim smile.

“ _You_ are the Centurion now, Octavian. Lead them well. I know Kryptonius also would have more than approved.”

After a long moment, Quintus held out his arms, shaky as they were, and allowed Westalis to put the massive galea into his hands.

* * *

When Westalis strode back outside into broad daylight alone, Antonius was waiting for him at the gates of the cemetery, a tightly packed bundle at his feet. “Do you not wish to tell your men goodbye?” A stubborn shake of the head as Brictius grabbed his pack for him and marched on undeterred, never looking back. “They are legionaries. They are not bound to an individual, but to someone who fills out the rank.”

Antonius fell into lockstep with his visibly reluctant lover. “That is where you are wrong, beloved, but I shall respect your wish. Just know this: An army without a leader is a body without a spirit. And _you_ , Brictius Westalis, are a born leader. You will never feel rested upon hanging up your sword, I am certain.” Brictius squared his shoulders, making the black fabric of his cloak ripple down his back.

“With all this growing corruption and political feuding, I do not feel inclined to lead.” His lover tilted his head. “Then do what you always do. Lead in order to serve, not in order to rule. It does not have to be... here.” Brictius stopped fixating something in the distance and shot him a disbelieving look. “What do you mean?” Antonius Eduardus Structus forced his jaw to lose its tightness and blinked up into Brictius' face.

“I will accompany you on your journey - make it our journey. Anywhere you go, I will come along.” Westalis glimpsed over to where the Amphitheatrum Flavium loomed up in the distance, and back to the expectant face of his lover. “What if we cannot find a place in the Gods' favoring light?” He got an affectionate smile in return. “Then we fight in the shade. Strive with equal step. As far as the world extends.”

Brictius downplayed whatever feelings he had by putting up a crooked smirk. Together they walked over to where the tall Andalusian steed stood waiting for them. Upon their arrival, Vespertilio went to push its head into his owner's chest, and he rubbed his ears and neck in return, mumbling quiet, soothing nothings. Westalis first helped his lover getting up into the saddle, before he fixated their belongings.

“You will have to improve your horse riding. By far.”  
  
Once he had slipped upon the horse's back in an effortless move, Antonius craned his head to look at him. The first real laugh in what was probably the first time in months bubbled from his lips. “And I shall – for you to stop complaining.” Brictius Titanus Westalis only smirked back at him in return before he gripped the reins and lightly pressed his heels into Vespertilio's sides, to which the gelding began to trot onward.

With his arms around Antonius Eduardus Structus' supple body, they rode off into the glowing red sunset.

**THE END**

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * Optio Centurionis = chosen man of the Centurion  
> (source: Wikipedia)  
>  
> 
> As always, I want to thank anyone who read, gave kudos, and left wonderful comments - you are what keeps me writing :) 
> 
> Many heartfelt thanks go out to black_queen for being my constant anchor and supporter (even if things went a little rogue in this one), and moreover to MistressLuna for being an unexpected, but all the more delightful companion along the way - without your enthusiasm, this story would have been a lot blander!
> 
> Off I go again, meddling with the time machine to find another verse for the boys to play in..


End file.
